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THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 


SECOND  EDITION 


'was    I    WRONG   TO    COME    IN?"    HE   ASKED  Page  3/6 


THE  ANGEL 
OF    FORGIVENESS 


BY 

ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

I  I 

AUTHOR  OP  "Nellie's  memories,"  "no  friend  like  a  sister,"  etc. 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR  BY 
MARY  E.  FRATZ 


God  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell  with  Him  above; 
The  tender  one  was  Pity,  and  the  dearest  one  was  Love. 

— Whittibr. 


PHILADELPHIA   &-  LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 
1908 


Copyright,  1907 
By  J.  B.  LippiNCOTT  Company 


Published    September,  1907 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 
The  Washington  Square  Press,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  FAGB 

I.  Mentor  Hands  Me  My  Pen 7 

II.  The  New  Governess i8 

III.  I  AM  Eight  Years  Old 28 

IV.  I  Fall  in  Love  with  Helen 39 

V.  Cousin  Yvonne 49 

VI.  Sydney  Comes  to  Prior's  Cot 59 

VII.  It  is  Always  Darnell  and  Co 69 

VIII.  "Beggars  All" 79 

IX.  The  Corner  Room 88 

X.  Roy  and  I  Go  Down  to  Bayfield 98 

XI.  Funerals  and  Angels 108 

XII.  St.  Helen's  Towers 118 

XIII.  Stella  Gives  Me  a  New  Name 127 

XIV.  Breakers  Ahead 137 

XV.  While  Ringing  to  Evensong 147 

XVI.   "Why  Did  You  Leave  Us?" 157 

XVII.  The  Angel  of  Forgiveness 166 

XVIII.  Father  and  I 177 

XIX.  "It  is  Sad  as  Death" 187 

XX.  An  Open  Secret 197 

XXI.  An  Object  Lesson 208 

XXII.  Sydney  Proves  an  Optimist 216 

XXIII.  Golliwog  and  Lot's  Wife 226 

XXIV.  "Githa,  You  Forget  Yourself" 235 

XXV.  "Go  on  with  Your  Mission" 243 

V 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGB 

XXVI.  Stella  Delivers  My  Message 252 

XXVII.  A  Cheque  from  Darnell  and  Co 262 

XXVIII.  A  Twilight  Hour 272 

XXIX.  Lad's  Love 281 

XXX.  "Then  I  Will  Come" 290 

XXXI.  Thurston  Obtains  a  Berth 301 

XXXII.  At  the  School  of  Art  Needlework 311 

XXXIII.  "Titania" 322 

XXXIV.  Noah's  Ark 332 

XXXV.  A  Dreamer  of  Dreams 342 

XXXVI.  Phantasmagoria 351 

XXXVII.  "  Through  Pain  to  Peace" 360 

XXXVIII.  Autumn  Vintage 369 

XXXIX.  A  Golden  Hour 378 

XL.  "I  Have  Brought  Your  Mistress  Home"  ....  388 

XLI.  My  Woman's  Heritage 398 

XLII.  Mentor  Closes  the  Chapter 408 


The 
Angel  of  Forgiveness 

I 

MENTOR  HANDS  ME  MY  PEN 


Describe  humbly  what  you  see  and  you  cannot  go  wrong : 
describe  what  others  have  been  taught  to  see  and  you  cannot  by 
any  possibility  be  right. — John  Oliver  Hobbes. 

My  best  friend  said  to  me  one  day,  "  Githa,  you  are 
rather  an  imaginative  young  woman,  and  in  a  feminine 
and  amateurish  way  you  have  a  pretty  fancy  and  a 
tolerable  knack  of  character-drawing;  why  do  you  not 
beguile  what  you  so  improperly  term  the  weary  hours 
of  captivity  by  writing  your  girlish  reminiscences.  I 
am  quite  serious,"  as  I  stared  at  him,  unable  to  believe 
the  evidence  of  my  own  ears ;  "  it  will  be  good  practice 
for  you,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  some  of  your  friends — - 
your  humble  servant  amongst  the  number — will  find 
amusement  in  the  perusal.  After  all,"  rising  from  his 
chair  as  though  to  emphasise  his  remark,  "  there  is  noth- 
ing so  interesting  as  real  life.  Take  my  advice,  my  dear 
child ;  it  will  be  far  more  healthy  pastime  than  fretting 
over  the  doctor's  orders,"  and  then  Mentor  gave  me  a 
reassuring  nod  and  smile  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
closing  the  door  softly  and  humming  his  favourite  little 
tune  under  his  breath. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

If  he  had  wanted  to  rouse  me  from  my  grey  mood  of 
cheerless  despondency,  he  had  certainly  taken  the  best 
means  of  doing  so.  What  a  strange  idea,  and  how 
impossible !  and  yet  it  somehow  attracted  me — it  would 
pass  the  time  during  the  long  days  and  weeks  that  must 
be  spent  on  my  couch.  How  I  loathed  the  prospect,  and 
secretly  rebelled  against  the  verdict  of  my  kind  and 
careful  physician,  for  I  was  only  a  beginner  in  the  school 
of  life,  and  had  many  a  "  turned  lesson  "  to  learn  over 
again. 

How  well  I  remember  that  afternoon,  and  the  soft 
briskness  of  the  October  air.  The  window  was  open, 
but  a  bright  little  fire  burnt  on  the  hearth.  There  were 
still  some  roses  peeping  in,  but  the  red  and  yellow  leaves 
were  pattering  down  fast  on  the  gravel  walks.  A  pleas- 
ant pungent  smell  of  burning  weeds  now  and  then 
reached  me.  The  stillness  seemed  to  soothe  my  nerves, 
and  as  I  gazed  dreamily  at  the  fire  I  said  to  myself, 
"  Why  should  I  not  do  it  ?  "  for  I  knew  well  that  dear 
friend  of  mine  was  generally  right,  and  even  if  I  failed — 
well,  only  a  few  torn  sheets  of  paper  would  be  the  result ; 
and  then  I  rang  the  bell  and  asked  Annie  to  bring  me  my 
writing-pad. 

No,  it  was  no  use  letting  my  good  resolution  cool. 
"  To-day  does  better  work  than  half-a-dozen  to-morrows," 
as  Nurse  Marland  used  to  say.  I  have  a  whole  list  of 
dear  old  Mardie's  sayings  copied  out  in  a  little  black 
book.  I  used  to  read  them  out  to  father,  and  he  would 
annotate  them.  I  remember  when  I  quoted  the  one  I 
have  just  mentioned  he  repeated  slowly,  "  To-day  does 
better  work  than  half-a-dozen  to-morrows.  That's 
another  version  of  '  Strike  when  the  iron's  hot.'  Cooling 
iron  needs  the  furnace  again.  Mardie  is  right,  Gipsy ; 
procrastination  is  a  feeble  sort  of  thing." 


MENTOR  HANDS  ME  MY  PEN 

It  seems  to  me  that  my  autographical  sketches  will 
be  as  straggly  and  untidy  as  my  big  portfolio  of  water- 
colour  drawings  which  was  consigned  to  the  attic.  I 
never  could  be  precise  and  methodical  in  spite  of  all 
Mardie's  and  Miss  Redford's  efforts,  and  I  must  write 
in  my  own  desultory  way  or  lay  down  my  pen  for  good 
and  all. 

A  child's  memory  is  not  infallible,  and  imagination 
often  embellishes  it  with  glowing  tints.  A  happy  and 
healthy  and  well-protected  childhood  is  spent  in  pleasant 
places  not  far  removed  from  fairyland :  one  passes  over 
a  rainbow  bridge  to  a  wonderland,  where  grown-up  people 
are  always  wise  and  can  do  no  wrong.  Giants  walk  the 
earth  with  pockets  hard  to  reach,  but  which  are  always 
filled  with  sugar-plums — "  sweeties,"  one  termed  them. 
"  Will  there  be  toy-shops  in  Heaven,  Fardie?  "  I  remem- 
ber asking  my  father,  when  I  was  a  tiny  mite,  one  Sunday 
evening.  I  had  grown  tired  of  the  picture-books  he  was 
showing  me,  and  wanted  my  doll,  Mariana,  who  opened 
and  shut  her  eyes  at  my  bidding,  and  had  lovely  blue 
kid  shoes ;  but  Mardie,  who  was  old-fashioned,  had  con- 
signed Mariana  to  the  toy  cupboard  until  Monday 
morning. 

"  Toy-shops,  you  little  heathen !  "  responded  father 
good-humouredly,  as  I  climbed  on  his  knee  and  nestled 
against  him.  "  What  put  such  an  idea  in  your  little 
head,  Gipsy? — such  a  curly  head,  too,"  smoothing  it 
gently  as  he  spoke.  But  I  was  not  to  be  put  off  in  that 
way;  I  shook  off  his  hand  impatiently  and  frowned. 

''  Mardie  says  that  Heaven  is  a  happy  place,"  I  con- 
tinued, in  rather  a  cross  tone,  "  and  that  all  good  little 
girls  and  boys  will  be  happy  too.  I  shall  play  for  ever 
and  ever,  so  I  shall  want  heaps  of  toys,  and  kittens 
and    rabbits,    and    dicky-birds    and  " — but    my    list    of 

9 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

heavenly  requirements  was  cut  ruthlessly  short  by  a 
knock  at  the  door  and  the  usual  formula,  "  It  is  your 
bed-time,  Miss  Githa."  Alas,  even  in  fairyland  things 
were  not  perfect !  To  go  to  bed  v^hen  one  was  not  sleepy 
— well,  any  child  had  a  right  to  protest  and  feel  injured, 
but  father,  who  was  aware  of  my  powers  of  argument, 
closed  my  lips  with  a  hearty  kiss. 

"  Good-night,  my  pet,  I  will  come  and  see  you  before 
dinner,  and  if  you  are  asleep  I  will  save  the  kisses  for 
to-morrow.  Now  trot  along,  my  little  love,  don't  keep 
Nurse  Marland  waiting,"  and  when  father  spoke  in  that 
tone  I  never  ventured  to  rebel. 

Father  and  Mardie  and  I  lived  in  the  big  corner  house 
in  Cheyne  Walk — St.  Olave's  Lodge,  it  was  called. 
Dear  old  house,  how  I  loved  it,  with  its  red-brick  wall 
always  smothered  in  Virginia  creepers,  and  its  shaded 
balcony,  where  one  could  sit  and  see  the  steamers  passing 
on  the  river,  and  the  wide  embankment  with  its  seats 
and  trees !  On  summer  evenings  it  was  delightful  to 
see  the  barges  and  steamboats  laden  with  passengers, 
and  to  hear  the  washing  of  the  water  against  the  keel, 
as  the  swift  propeller  churned  it  into  miniature  waves. 

Dear  old  St.  Olave's !  every  brick  was  precious  to  me ; 
but  I  never  pass  it  now  without  a  sigh.  It  has  been 
altered  and  modernised  and  improved  past  recognition, 
in  my  opinion ;  and  the  plate-glass  windows  and  grand 
new  frontage  do  not  compensate  for  such  ruthless  destruc- 
tion of  old  associations.  "  You  must  own,  Gipsy,  that 
it  badly  needed  repair,"  father  would  say  when  I  com- 
plained to  him.  "  In  our  day  we  put  up  with  things," 
but  I  never  would  let  him  finish. 

"  It  was  the  loveliest  old  house  in  the  world,"  I 
returned,  "  before  those  Goths  and  Vandals  worked  their 
will  on  it.    What  did  the  outside  matter,  the  rooms  inside 


MENTOR  HANDS  ME  MY  PEN 

were  just  perfect " ;  and  though  father  shook  his  head 
at  my  vehemence,  he  did  not  contradict  me. 

I  might  be  incHned  to  doubt  my  own  youthful  judg- 
ment and  memory,  but  by  a  strange  coincidence,  a  few 
days  before  this,  a  letter  from  my  former  governess. 
Miss  Redford — only  her  name  is  not  Redford  now — 
had  reached  me  touching  on  this  very  subject;  but  I 
will  transcribe  the  whole  passage.  "  I  was  thinking  of 
the  old  days  rather  soberly  and  tenderly,  dear  Githa,  as 
I  walked  down  Cheyne  Walk  the  other  day.  No,  you 
are  right,  one  can  hardly  recognise  St.  Olave's  Lodge, 
it  is  like  seeing  a  young  mask  on  an  old  face.  In  those 
days  I  used  to  think  it  the  most  charming  old  house  I 
knew ;  on  summer  days,  when  the  door  opened,  that  wide 
dimly-lighted  hall  was  so  cool  and  delightful,  with  its 
beautiful  tesselated  pavement  and  fine  old  staircase.  And 
then  the  long  drawing-room,  a  little  faded  and  old- 
fashioned  perhaps,  hardly  up  to  date  in  its  hangings 
and  decorations,  and  needing  so  urgently  a  woman's  hand 
and  eye  to  arrange  details ;  too  often  flowerless  vases  and 
unwatered  plants,  and  yet  what  a  dear  old  homelike  room 
it  was !  Do  you  remember,  Githa,  how  often  you  begged 
to  do  afternoon  lessons  on  the  balcony,  and  more  than 
once  I  was  weak  enough  to  give  in  to  your  childish  wish ; 
but  the  lessons  were  never  properly  studied,  for  every 
minute  a  shrill,  excited  little  voice  would  exclaim,  *  Oh,  do 
look,  ATiss  Redford,  at  those  barges  laden  with  hay,  how 
delightfully  comfortable  they  must  be ;  there  is  a  little 
boy  and  a  dog  curled  up  at  the  end  of  one — oh,  I  do 
wish  I  could  be  with  them,'  and  so  on  through  the  hot 
drowsy  afternoon.  No,  certainly  balcony  studies  were 
sad  failures,  for  you  were  a  restless  child,  Githa,  and 
your  father's  pet  name  Gipsy  suited  you." 


II 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

I  remember  I  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  smile,  and 
took  out  a  miniature  that  father  had  had  painted  when 
I  was  seven  years  old. 

A  little  brown  oval  face,  with  big  serious  dark  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  look  straight  into  mine  with  an  innocent 
questioning  expression.  Child  Githa  confronting  woman 
Githa !  Such  solemn  eyes,  and  such  thick  masses  of 
wavy  hair,  dark  brown,  with  here  and  there  a  ruddy 
light,  and  a  mutinous  eager  little  mouth,  ready  at  any 
moment  to  break  into  smiles.  Pretty  ? — yes,  I  suppose  so, 
or  Mr.  Cleveland,  who  was  such  a  great  artist,  would 
not  have  begged  so  hard  to  paint  me  for  his  celebrated 
picture  of  Little  Red  Riding-Hood.  How  willingly  father 
would  have  bought  that  picture,  but  it  was  not  for  sale. 
Aunt  Cosie  saw  it  when  it  was  finished,  and  she  told  Miss 
Redford  that  it  was  charming,  and  would  certainly  be 
greatly  admired.  I  believe  a  rich  Australian  had  ordered 
it,  to  match  a  picture  of  his  own  little  girl  who  was 
painted  as  Bo-peep. 

I  suppose  every  child  thinks  there  is  no  man  to 
compare  with  her  own  father,  but  to  this  day  I  honestly 
believe  that  my  father,  Philip  Darnell,  is  the  handsomest 
man  in  all  my  little  circle  of  acquaintances.  To  my 
childish  eyes  he  was  simply  perfect.  He  was  tall  and 
very  strong  and  athletic-looking,  and  he  held  himself 
remarkably  well.  His  features  were  good,  and  he  had 
the  kindest  eyes  in  the  world — they  were  dark  blue,  I 
discovered,  and  at  times  they  were  capable  of  a  merry 
twinkle ;  but  I  was  once  much  hurt  in  my  childish  feel- 
ings by  overhearing  a  remark  of  our  cook-housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Kennedy,  to  Hallett  our  butler,  which  I  foolishly 
repeated  to  father.  Children  are  not  remarkable  for 
tact,  and  it  was  that  unlucky  speech  of  mine  which  made 
father  complain  to  Aunt  Cosie  that  his  little  girl  was 

12 


MENTOR  HANDS  ME  MY  PEN 

too  much  with  the  servants.  I  heard  afterwards  that 
Aunt  Cosie  advised  him  to  turn  the  nursery  into  a  school- 
room, and  to  engage  Miss  Redford  as  my  governess. 
Aunt  Cosie  was  very  friendly  with  the  Redfords,  and 
Claudia,  the  second  sister,  was  a  special  chum  of  hers, 
and  it  was  Claudia  whom  she  suggested. 

What  a  fuss  and  turmoil  and  upheaval  of  old  customs, 
just  on  account  of  my  harmless  little  speech ! 

"  Father,  dear,"  I  had  said,  as  I  sat  on  his  knee  in  the 
gloaming.  "  I  heard  Kenny  say  such  a  funny  thing  to 
Hallett.  They  did  not  know  I  was  in  the  pantry,  because 
it  was  rather  dark,  and  Kenny  spoke  so  loudly.  '  I  don't 
suppose  you  would  find  a  finer-looking  man  than  the 
master,  Mr.  Hallett,  in  a  day's  march,  so  to  speak.  He 
walks  with  an  air  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  am  Philip  Darnell 
the  banker  " — not  that  he  is  a  bit  proud  really.'  " 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about,  Gipsy  ?  "  asked 
father,  rousing  himself  from  a  brown  study  with  difficulty. 

"  Oh,  do  let  me  finish,  darling,"  in  an  important  voice. 
"  Kenny  is  such  a  wordy  person." 

"  '  Right  you  are,  Mrs.  Kennedy,'  observed  Hallett. 
'  If  the  master  were  a  duke  he  could  not  carry  himself 
better,  and  when  he  is  on  black  Sultan's  back  I  have 
seen  folk  turn  their  heads  to  look  after  him.' 

"  '  I  don't  doubt  the  ladies  admire  him  ' — Kenny 
spoke  in  such  a  funny  voice.  '  I  often  say  to  myself, 
Hallett,  that  the  master  must  be  a  bit  lonely  with  only 
that  child  to  talk  to  him ;  there  is  a  sad  look  in  his  eyes 
that  makes  my  heart  ache  at  whiles,'  and — oh,  father, 
how  you  did  startle  me,"  for  father  had  put  me  down 
suddenly  from  his  knee,  and  was  ringing  the  bell  rather 
loudly. 

"  I  have  a  letter  to  write,  Githa,  and  it  is  past  your 
bed-time,  and  I  have  no  leisure  to  waste  on  such  a  chatter- 

<3 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

box.  Take  her  away,  Mrs.  Marland,"  as  nurse  appeared ; 
"  she  deserves  a  whipping,  but  I  doubt  if  she  will  get  it." 
He  spoke  in  jest  and  kissed  me,  but  why  had  he  called 
me  Githa  in  that  stiff  way,  and  started  up  so  suddenly 
without  taking  any  notice  of  my  speech?  I  puzzled  my 
childish  head  sorely  over  this  when  I  got  upstairs,  and 
Mardie,  who  read  me  like  an  open  book,  soon  coaxed 
me  to  tell  her  what  was  amiss  with  her  lamb ;  but  she 
shook  her  dear  head  once  or  twice  during  the  recital. 
I  was  standing  before  her  in  my  little  night-dress  before 
I  had  finished,  and  Mardie  drew  me  comfortably  on  to 
her  lap,  and  hugged  me  in  a  comforting  manner. 

"  Don't  give  it  a  second  thought,  my  pet ;  it  stands 
to  reason  that  the  master  must  have  his  busy  moments 
like  other  gentlemen,  and  with  all  his  love  for  my 
precious,  his  time  is  too  valuable  to  waste  on  talk." 

"  Then  you  really  think  that  he  was  in  a  hurry  to 
write  his  letter  and  not  making  believe,  Mardie  ?  " 

"  The  master  never  makes  believe,  dearie,  except  in 
play,"  returned  Mardie,  stirring  the  fire  a  little  noisily. 
"  I'll  be  bound  he  is  at  that  letter  now  " ;  then,  as  the 
street  door  suddenly  slammed,  she  coughed  slightly,  and 
went  on  in  a  ruminative  manner. 

"  The  master  must  have  heaps  of  business  on  his 
shoulders,  and  when  he  comes  home  he  wants  to  rest,  and 
to  have  his  little  girl  amuse  him.  If  I  were  you,  Miss 
Githa,  I  would  not  bother  him  with  that  sort  of  talk. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  and  Mr.  Hallett  are  excellent  people  in 
their  way,  but  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Darnell  would  not 
care  to  hear  their  conversation.  A  still  tongue  and  quick 
ears  make  no  mischief.  Pantry  talk  and  drawing-room 
talk  are  mostly  different.  Now  you  are  getting  sleepy, 
my  girlie;  say  your  prayers  and  nurse  will  tuck  you  up, 
and  we'll  have  our  hymn."     For  until  I  was  quite  a 

14 


MENTOR  HANDS  ME  MY  PEN 

big  girl,  my  dear  old  nurse,  who  had  a  sweet  tuneful 
voice,  was  in  the  habit  of  singing  to  me  a  few  verses 
of  an  evening  hymn,  "  Now  the  day  is  over  " ;  and  how- 
ever sleepy  I  might  be  when  I  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow, 
I  always  strove  religiously  to  remain  awake  for  my 
favourite  verse: 

Through    the    long    night    watches, 
May  Thine  angels  spread 
Their  white  wings  above  me, 
Watching  round  my  bed. 

"  It  must  be  like  sleeping  in  a  tent  of  feathers — 
snow-white  feathers,"  I  once  murmured  drowsily,  just 
before  I  sank  into  unconsciousness. 

Father  never  made  any  allusion  to  my  remarks ;  but 
the  next  day  he  went  to  see  Aunt  Cosie,  and  stayed  a 
long  time;  and  then  Aunt  Cosie  paid  us  a  visit  in  the 
nursery  and  told  me  that  father  was  going  to  take  me 
for  a  walk,  and  that  I  was  to  get  ready,  and  not  keep 
him  waiting.  I  did  not  need  any  further  injunction — 
a  walk  with  father  was  one  of  my  greatest  treats.  He 
always  asked  me  where  I  should  like  to  go,  and  if  he 
thought  I  was  tired  he  would  take  a  hansom.  On  these 
occasions  he  was  such  a  dear,  merry  companion,  and 
sometimes  we  played  famous  games  together.  What  I 
called  "  the  tramping  game "  was  my  favourite.  We 
pretended  to  be  two  tramps,  and  Battersea  Park  was 
generally  the  scene  of  our  pilgrimage.  Father,  who  was 
a  capital  actor,  would  sometimes,  in  an  unfrequented  part, 
act  the  character  so  inimitably  that  I  would  shiver  with 
sympathy,  especially  if  the  weather  was  cold  and  raw. 
His  rather  stately  walk  would  change  to  a  shabby,  limping 
gait,  and  I  was  his  little  girl  selling  matches  or  laces. 
Of  course,  this  game  had  its  limitations,  as  father  was 

IS 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

unwilling  to  take  passers-by  into  confidence ;  but  in  the 
dusk  we  kept  it  up  as  long  as  possible,  though  I  don't 
mind  confessing  now  that  I  often  felt  inclined  to  beg 
him  to  stop.  "  You  do  look  so  very  cold,  and  hungry, 
and  miserable,"  I  said  so  piteously  one  day  that  he  burst 
out  laughing,  and  kissed  me  and  called  me  a  little  goose. 
But  he  did  it  too  well,  and  I  had  to  shake  myself  to  get 
rid  of  the  notion  that  I  was  a  shivering  little  match-girl 
who  was  presently  going  to  sup  on  a  saveloy  and  a  hard 
crust  under  a  dark  arch  not  far  from  the  river.  No,  I 
say  again,  father's  play-acting  was  too  dramatic  and 
realistic  for  my  enjoyment. 

We  had  a  charming  walk,  and  that  afternoon  I  was 
a  lost  princess,  and  he  was  a  benevolent  goatherd  who 
rescued  me  and  then  turned  into  a  prince,  and  it  was 
such  a  pretty  story,  and  father  carried  it  out  so  well,  that 
I  was  absorbed  in  it,  and  was  only  sorry  when  we  reached 
home.  I  thought  Mardie  looked  a  little  grave  and  out 
of  sorts  that  evening,  but  she  welcomed  me  with  her 
usual  affection,  as  though  I  had  been  absent  for  a  month. 
But  as  we  sat  at  tea  she  sighed  more  than  once,  and  in 
conversation  alluded  to  herself  as  an  old  woman — always 
a  sign  of  low  spirits  with  Mardie. 

"  But  you  are  not  really  old,"  I  objected ;  "  at  least 
father  said  so  one  day  " ;  for  of  course,  to  my  childish 
mind,  fifty-two  was  extreme  old  age. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  my  lamb,  I  am  a  useless  old 
woman — ^but  there,  the  good  Lord  has  not  made  us  all 
alike ;  changes  must  come,  and  it  is  not  my  place  to 
grumble  if  they  that  sit  in  authority  over  me  see  fit  to 
make  different  arrangements.  Don't  sit  staring  at  me 
with  your  pretty  eyes ;  eat  your  bread  and  honey,  dearie, 
and  tell  your  silly  old  Mardie  that  you  will  always  love 
her."     And  Mardie  completed  my  mystification  by  tak- 

i6 


MENTOR  HANDS  ME  MY  PEN 

ing  my  head  between  her  hands  and  kissing  my  curls, 
with  a  passionate  tenderness  that  astonished  me.  Poor 
dear  Mardie,  how  could  I  guess  that  the  prospect  of  the 
new  schoolroom  and  governess  was  filling  her  soul  with 
bitterness ! 


II 

THE  NEW  GOVERNESS 


It   is  thus  in  youth ! 
We  play  at  leap-frog  over  the  god  Term ; 
The  love  within  us  and  the  love  without 
Are  mixed,  confounded ;  if  we  are  loved  or  love, 
We  scarce  distinguish :  thus,  with  other  power ; 
Being  acted  on  and  acting  seem  the  same : 
In  that  first  onrush  of  life's  chariot-wheels, 
We  know  not  if  the  forests  move  or  we. 

E.  B.   Browning. 

Mardie  had  come  to  our  house  when  I  was  about  four 
years  old,  but  she  had  never  been  in  service  before.  She 
was  a  widow  then,  having  lost  her  husband  the  previous 
year.  He  had  been  the  captain  of  a  small  vessel  connected 
with  the  Newfoundland  fisheries,  and  one  foggy  night 
the  smack  grounded  on  an  iceberg,  and  poor  Captain 
Marland  and  all  the  crew  were  lost.  For  a  cruel  jag  of 
ice  had  ripped  up  one  side  of  the  ill-fated  vessel,  and  the 
waves  washed  from  end  to  end  of  it,  drowning  the  men 
as  they  strove  to  fight  their  way  to  the  deck. 

Mardie  had  only  had  one  child,  a  boy,  who  died  in 
infancy ;  and  during  her  husband's  long  absences  she  had 
lived  with  her  parents.  It  was  their  death,  following 
very  shortly  after  her  widowhood,  and  her  own  exceeding 
loneliness,  which  induced  her  to  become  my  nurse.  My 
father  greatly  appreciated  her,  and  both  he  and  Aunt 
Cosie  reposed  entire  confidence  on  her,  and  the  household 
treated  her  with  much  respect.    Mardie  was  a  brisk,  dark 

i8 


THE  NEW  GOVERNESS 

little  woman  with  bright  eyes  and  a  neat  figure;  perhaps 
it  was  because  her  expression  was  so  pleasant,  but  I 
seriously  thought  her  beautiful,  and  more  than  once  I  told 
her  so.  I  remember  how  she  laughed  until  she  nearly 
cried.  "  I  wish  my  dear  old  mother  could  have  heard 
that,"  she  said  once.  "  Bless  your  innocent  heart,  Miss 
Githa ;  I  was  never  bonnie  even  in  my  young  days. 
'  Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  Pollie,'  how  well  I 
remember  mother  saying  that.  Well,  dearie,  what  is  it?  " 
for  I  was  staring  at  her  with  all  my  might. 

"  Was  your  name  Pollie  ?  "  I  asked  in  an  interested 
tone. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Githa — that  is  to  say,  I  was  christened 
Mary  Anne,  but  father  and  mother  and  Fergus  always 
called  me  Pollie." 

I  assured  Mardie  that  it  was  a  lovely  name,  and  that 
I  greatly  preferred  it  to  Mardie,  but  she  changed  the 
subject  a  little  hurriedly  by  asking  me  if  I  should  like 
to  see  a  picture  of  her  poor  lost  husband — "  drowned 
dead,"  as  Mrs.  Kennedy  used  to  say  of  some  luckless 
black  kittens ;  and  the  next  moment  she  offered  rever- 
ently for  my  inspection  a  shabby  black  case  containing 
a  daguerreotype.  I  studied  it  intently.  I  thought  the 
weather-beaten  florid  face  looked  kind  and  good-tempered, 
and  the  brown  whiskers  and  short  curly  beard  appealed  to 
my  childish  fancy.  T  assured  Mardie  breathlessly  that 
her  Fergus  was  a  splendid  man,  and  she  kissed  me  and 
then  the  daguerreotype  rather  tearfully. 

"  Oh,  how  sorry  you  must  have  been  to  lose  him, 
Mardie,"  and  Mardie  gave  me  such  a  sad  little  smile. 

"  One  can't  talk  of  such  things,  dearie,"  she  returned, 
as  she  put  away  the  sacred  treasure  in  a  safe  place. 
"  And  don't  trouble  your  dear  little  heart,  my  pretty. 
God  was  very  good  and  raised  me  up  friends  in  my 

19 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

trouble,  and  you  were  such  a  comfort  to  me  with  your 
baby's  ways ;  but  there,  if  we  live  long  enough  we  must 
all  sup  sorrow  at  times,"  and  Mardie  roused  herself  and 
suggested  that  we  should  go  out  and  get  some  Bath  buns 
for  tea,  these  being  my  favourite  delicacies. 

Mardie  did  not  long  fret  over  the  contemplated 
change ;  she  had  far  too  much  sense,  and  her  love  for 
me  was  too  real  and  unselfish.  A  long  talk  with  father 
soon  put  her  right. 

After  all,  the  old  nursery  was  not  to  be  touched. 
Mardie  would  sit  and  sew  there,  and  for  the  present,  at 
least,  the  domestic  authorities  decided  that  we  were  still 
to  have  breakfast  and  tea  there.  Father  was  too  busy 
with  his  letters  and  papers  to  be  hindered  by  my  childish 
chatter  in  the  morning;  but  luncheon,  which  was  really 
my  dinner,  was  to  be  taken  in  the  dining-room  with  my 
governess.  A  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage, 
exactly  opposite  to  the  nursery,  was  to  be  turned  into  the 
schoolroom,  and  some  nice  new  furniture  was  sent  in ; 
and  Mardie,  who  took  much  interest  in  the  arrangements 
and  was  very  clever  with  her  needle,  made  the  pretty 
cretonne  hangings,  and  the  neat  covering  for  the  couch 
and  easy-chairs. 

"  If  you  leave  the  door  just  ajar,  Miss  Githa,"  she 
observed  once,  "  I  shall  be  able  to  hear  your  dear  voice 
quite  plainly  at  your  lessons  " ;  but  I  interrupted  her, 
for  a  sudden  doubt  was  troubling  me. 

"  I  don't  mind  learning  lessons,"  I  returned.  "  and  I 
will  say  them  as  loudly  as  possible,  but  I  want  to  know, 
Mardie,  if  we  shall  have  our  nice  morning  walks 
together,"  but  to  my  dismay  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"  It  stands  to  reason,  my  dearie,  that  a  young  lady 
going  on  for  eight  should  walk  with  her  governess ;  it 
is  only  fitting  and  proper,  as  Mrs.  Bevan  says  " — Mrs. 

30 


THE  NEW  GOVERNESS 

Bevan  was  Aunt  Cosie — and  then  Mardie  cautiously  and 
with  much  tact  explained  to  me  the  future  programme. 
Miss  Redford  would  spend  every  day  at  our  house  from 
ten  until  six — except  on  Saturdays,  when  she  would  be 
free  after  luncheon.  This  was  arranged  for  my  sake  as 
well  as  my  governess's,  as  Saturday  afternoon  was  always 
spent  with  father,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  changing 
our  old  habits. 

"  I  shall  hate  walks  without  you,  Mardie,"  I  observed, 
rather  crossly,  for  Mardie  was  such  a  cheerful,  self-effac- 
ing companion.  What  I  liked,  she  liked ;  and  she  was  so 
exceedingly  sympathetic  when  I  had  a  bone  in  my  leg 
or  growing  pains,  or  any  other  childish  ailment  difficult 
to  diagnose,  and  not  very  far  removed  from  that  distress- 
ing form  of  complaint  which  required  what  Mardie 
always  termed  "  temper  powders,"  when  it  was  unusually 
acute.  The  rest  cure  in  a  carefully  shaded  room  was  the 
invariable  remedy. 

"  Got  the  hump,  Gipsy  ?  "  father  asked  once  when  he 
found  me  prostrate  in  my  little  frilled  dressing-gown. 
I  thought  he  looked  at  me  rather  quizzically,  so  I  shut 
my  eyes  in  a  dignified  way. 

"  A  person's  head  must  ache  sometimes,"  I  returned 
stiffly,  for  in  some  moods  I  disliked  to  be  laughed  at. 
The  fact  was  I  had  been  excessively  naughty,  and  even 
Mardie's  stock  of  patience  had  been  exhausted  by  my 
unreasonable  fractiousness ;  but  I  had  not  yet  arrived 
at  the  penitent  stage,  so  father  only  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  gave  a  little  laugh ;  and  when  he  had  shut  the 
door  I  cried  myself  to  sleep,  and  never  woke  until  tea- 
time,  when  Mardie  came  to  pull  up  the  blinds  and  advised 
me  to  be  quick,  as  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  sent  up  hot  scones. 
I  soon  made  my  peace  with  Mardie — for  she  never  cher- 
ished any  resentment — and  when  I  went  downstairs  to 

21 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

spend  half  an  hour  in  the  twihght  with  father,  I  con- 
fessed to  him  that  the  headache  had  been  caused  by  my 
own  naughtiness.  I  never  could  go  to  sleep  until  I  had 
told  father  everything.  It  was  so  comfortable  to  receive 
absolution  and  to  be  assured  that  he  was  just  as  fond  of 
me,  however  badly  I  behaved ;  and  this  fresh  mark  of  his 
love  always  made  me  feel  so  humble  and  ashamed  of 
myself. 

"  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could  be  always  good,"  I  murmured 
remorsefully  one  evening,  but  father  only  smoothed  my 
curls  caressingly. 

"  Oh,  we  all  wish  that,  Gipsy,"  and  he  sighed  a  little 
heavily. 

"  I  think  fathers  are  just  lovely,"  I  went  on,  "  for  they 
always  forgive  and  never  leave  off  being  kind.  I  think 
you  must  be  a  very,  very  good  man — I  often  tell  Mardie 
so."  But  father  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  the  next 
minute  he  asked  me  if  I  would  not  like  to  take  my  revenge 
at  Halma,  for  he  had  beaten  me  the  previous  evening.  I 
noticed  that  father  always  changed  the  subject  if  I  praised 
him  too  much ;  but  when  one  loves  a  parent  with  one's 
whole  heart,  it  is  a  little  difficult  not  to  think  too  much 
of  him,  and  father  was  just  perfection  in  my  eyes. 

I  think  both  Mardie  and  I  were  a  little  low  in  our 
spirits  that  Monday  morning  when  the  new  governess 
was  to  make  her  appearance. 

I  had  a  healthy  appetite,  and  generally  enjoyed  my 
food,  but  even  the  new-laid  egg  and  crisp  roll  failed  to 
tempt  me  that  morning.  But  Mardie  wisely  took  no 
notice ;  she  only  suggested  that  I  should  finish  as  quickly 
as  possible,  and  feed  my  canaries  as  usual — my  dear 
little  Pecksey  and  Goldie.  They  always  had  a  fly  around 
the  nursery  while  I  cleaned  their  cage,  and  I  had  to  bribe 
them  with  sugar  or  groundsel  to  come  back. 

aa 


THE  NEW  GOVERNESS 

I  had  only  just  hung  up  the  cage  again  when  I  heard 
father's  voice  outside,  and  the  next  moment  he  entered 
the  room  with  a  tall  young  lady  in  brown,  whom  he  intro- 
duced to  us  as  Miss  Redford. 

"  This  lady  is  going  to  teach  you,  and  help  you  to 
grow  up  a  clever,  accomplished  woman,  Gipsy ;  and  you 
must  be  good,  and  learn  all  you  can."  But  I  made  no 
answer  to  this,  only  hung  my  head  shyly  as  my  new: 
governess  shook  hands  with  me. 

"  Oh,  we  shall  soon  understand  each  other.  Will  you 
tell  me  your  name,  my  dear?  " 

Miss  Redford  spoke  in  a  crisp,  decided  voice. 
Strangers  often  thought  her  a  little  abrupt ;  she  resembled 
Cousin  Yvonne  in  that — and  that  reminds  me  that  I  have 
never  mentioned  Cousin  Yvonne,  but  that  will  come 
later. 

I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  that  first  minute  take 
to  Miss  Redford.  I  felt  she  would  inspire  me  with  more 
awe  than  affection.  She  was  rather  dark,  and  not  exactly 
good-looking;  but  she  had  a  fine  figure,  and  carried 
herself  well.  She  was  dressed  quietly,  but  in  excellent 
taste — as  father  remarked  afterwards  to  Aunt  Cosie,  "  he 
had  never  seen  a  better  groomed  young  woman."  I 
remember  Aunt  Cosie  told  him  that  all  the  Redford  girls 
were  the  same,  and  that  people  thought  them  very  stylish. 
"  Claudia  is  the  least  good-looking,"  she  went  on,  "  but 
her  friends  admire  her  because  she  is  so  clever,"  Claudia 
being  my  Miss  Redford. 

It  is  not  always  easy  for  a  reserved  person  to  win 
the  confidence  of  a  child,  and  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
be  agreeable  and  to  talk  down  to  my  level,  I  am  afraid 
it  was  a  good  many  weeks  before  we  really  understood 
each  other ;  and  yet  I  tried  honestly  to  like  her,  to  please 
father. 

23 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

My  coolness  and  aloofness  towards  the  new  governess 
puzzled  and  disappointed  him. 

"Why  don't  you  care  for  Miss  Redford,  Gipsy?"  he 
said  one  day  rather  reproachfully.  "  She  is  a  rattling 
good  governess,  and  I  have  to  pay  a  pretty  figure  for  her 
services.  You  are  an  ungrateful  monkey,  for  I  know 
she  takes  no  end  of  pains  with  you." 

"  Oh,  I  like  her  pretty  well,"  I  returned  carelessly ; 
"  but  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  love  her ;  she  isn't 
exactly  the  sort  of  person  one  can  love.  But  I  don't  mind 
doing  lessons  with  her ;  she  explains  things  and  makes 
them  interesting;  but  the  walks — oh,  father,"  and  here  a 
very  real  sigh  burst  from  me.  "  It  is  so  dreadful,  for 
she  will  teach  me  the  French  names  for  everything;  she 
says  it  is  impossible  to  carry  on  any  real  conversation 
for  the  next  six  months,  but  that  this  is  the  best  way  of 
teaching  me ;  and  she  always  asks  me  the  next  day  all  the 
horrid  things  over  again,  to  be  sure  that  I  remember 
them." 

"  Poor  little  Gip,  you  want  lots  of  breaking  in,"  he 
observed  in  a  pitying  voice ;  "  but  it  is  not  a  bad  idea," 
and  partly  to  tease  me,  but  perhaps  to  test  my  knowledge, 
he  would  persist  in  asking  the  French  names  of  the  prin- 
cipal objects  we  passed  during  our  Saturday  walk — 
trees,  palings,  ducks,  even  labourers  carrying  ladders — 
until  I  rebelled  and  flatly  refused  answering  another 
question,  although  he  declared  it  was  only  a  new  teach- 
ing game ;  but  despite  this  assurance  I  would  have  no 
more  of  it. 

I  had  some  childish  ailment  about  two  months  after 
the  new  governess's  advent  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge.  I 
think  it  was  German  measles ;  but  I  had  to  keep  in  my 
room  for  some  days,  and  it  was  then  that  I  began  to  like 
Miss  Redford  better. 


THE  NEW  GOVERNESS 

She  was  really  a  great  resource  during  those  trying 
days,  for  I  did  so  hate  my  confinement.  She  spent  most 
of  the  day  with  me,  reading  delightful  tales  to  me.  She 
was  a  most  dramatic  reader,  and  Mardie  would  often 
creep  in  with  her  work  to  listen  to  some  thrilling  scene ; 
and  she  would  invent  new  games  not  too  fatiguing  to  an 
invalid,  and  she  was  so  amusing  and  good-natured  that  I 
must  have  been  very  ungrateful  not  to  respond  to  her 
advances. 

I  believe,  indeed  I  am  sure,  that  she  took  a  deep 
interest  in  me  from  the  first.  She  has  often  told  me  since 
that  I  was  the  most  bewitching  original  little  creature  she 
had  ever  met — "  by  no  means  faultless,  Githa,"  she  would 
add.  "  Dear  me,  what  trouble  you  gave  me  those  first 
few  months ! " 

I  think,  with  all  her  cleverness  and  kindness.  Miss 
Redford  was  too  reserved  in  manner  to  find  the  way 
easily  to  a  child's  heart.  She  had  none  of  those  little 
petting,  caressing  ways  to  which  father  and  Mardie  had 
accustomed  me.  Her  kindness  was  bracing;  and  though 
she  was  always  ready  to  grant  me  any  coveted  indulgence, 
she  would  not  tolerate  listlessness  for  a  moment. 

"  I  must  have  your  attention,  your  whole  attention," 
she  would  say  sometimes  when  T  was  staring  a  little 
absently  out  of  the  window.  "  Work  is  work,  and  play 
play.  If  you  find  it  so  difficult  to  fix  your  eyes  on  your 
book,  I  must  pull  down  the  blind,"  and  more  than  once 
she  had  actually  done  so  when  the  sunshiny  ripples  on  the 
river  and  the  passing  boats  distracted  me  too  much. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Miss  Redford  knew 
her  duties,  and  could  stimulate  a  pupil's  flagging  interest 
in  a  marvellous  way.  It  was  she  who  suggested  to  Aunt 
Cosie  that  I  should  attend  some  dancing  and  drilling 
classes ;  and  when  I  grew  older  she  begged  my  father 

25 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

to  allow  her  to  take  me  to  afternoon  concerts,  where  I 
should  hear  good  music ;  and  it  was  also  owing  to  her 
wise  counsel  that  an  excellent  music-master  gave  me 
lessons.  She  herself  was  fully  qualified  to  teach  me 
French  and  German ;  indeed,  she  spoke  both  languages 
with  the  greatest  facility. 

I  began  to  get  quite  fond  of  her  after  a  time,  and  I 
used  to  question  Aunt  Cosie  about  her.  Aunt  Cosie 
was  really  my  father's  cousin,  but  she  was  so  much  older 
than  he  that  the  title  of  aunt  came  to  her  quite  naturally. 
She  was  one  of  the  prettiest  old  ladies  I  have  ever  seen 
in  my  life,  she  was  so  small  and  dainty,  with  such  pink 
cheeks  and  silvery  grey  hair,  as  thick  and  fine  as  a  child's  ; 
and  she  was  so  soft  and  gentle  in  manner  that  her  name 
exactly  suited  her,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  father  and 
I  loved  her,  for  every  one  must  have  done  so. 

She  was  very  well  off,  and  lived  in  a  dear  little  house 
in  Kensington  ever  since  her  husband's  death;  it  was 
called  Fairlawn,  and  was  quite  as  comfortable  and  dainty 
as  its  mistress. 

She  was  exceedingly  proud  of  her  husband's  memory, 
and  she  often  talked  of  him  to  father.  He  was  a  General, 
and  had  done  some  very  brave  things,  and  he  would  have 
been  knighted  but  for  the  sudden  illness  that  carried 
him  off. 

I  asked  father  one  day  why  Aunt  Cosie  had  no  chil- 
dren— little  people  ask  these  awkward  questions  some- 
times— and  he  said  she  had  had  a  lovely  little  girl.  Rose, 
who  lived  until  she  was  my  age,  but  scarlet  fever  had 
carried  her  off.  Both  she  and  the  General  had  doated 
on  her,  and  Aunt  Cosie  had  been  very  ill  for  a  long  time. 

I  used  to  look  very  hard  at  Aunt  Cosie  after  this.  I 
wondered  how  she  could  have  lived  through  such  trouble, 
and  yet  look  so  smiling  and  placid,  but  I  never  ventured 
to  ask  her  about  Rose. 

26 


THE  NEW  GOVERNESS 

When  I  was  puzzled  about  anything,  and  father  was 
busy,  I  always  found  a  safety-valve  in  talking  to  Mardie, 
so  one  day  I  asked  her  about  Aunt  Cosie — "  for  I  am  so 
surprised  that  she  can  be  so  cheerful,  living  all  by  herself 
without  that  kind,  brave  old  General  and  little  Rose." 

Mardie  was  sorting  some  clean  linen,  but  she  was 
never  too  busy  to  attend  to  me. 

"  Other  folks  have  been  surprised  too.  Miss  Githa,  my 
dear,  but  they  don't  know  the  secret  cause  of  her  cheer- 
fulness. Mrs.  Bevan  is  a  dear  good  lady,  and  she  lives 
her  religion.  She  had  many  a  talk  with  me  when  I  first 
came  to  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  for  we  had  both  known 
trouble,  and  she  was  always  ready  to  speak  a  word  of 
comfort " ;  and  here  Mardie  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and 
paused  for  a  moment. 

"  I  remember,"  she  went  on  presently,  "  she  found  me 
crying  one  day,  because  it  was  the  anniversary  of  my 
Fergus's  death,  and  I  was  very  low,  and  she  sat  down 
beside  me  and  took  my  hand,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes  too,  and  talked  to  me  so  sweetly  of  her  own 
troubles,  and  where  she  had  found  comfort.  Oh,  it  was 
just  beautiful  to  hear  her ! 

" '  We  don't  see  the  silver  lining  to  our  cloud  at  first,' 
she  said  softly,  '  and  some  of  us  refuse  to  see  it  for  a 
long,  long  time ;  but  when  we  once  recognise  the  Father's 
hand  ' — oh,  it  did  my  sore  heart  good  to  hear  her."  But 
just  then  Kenny  interrupted  us,  and  she  could  say  no 
more. 


Ill 

I  AM  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD 


0  child !  O  new-born  denizen 

Of  life's  great  city !  on  thy  head 

The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 

Like   a  celestial   benison ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the   future's   undiscovered   land. 

1  see  its  valves  expand, 
As  at  the  touch  of  Fate ! 

Longfellow. 

It  was  one  of  my  greatest  treats  to  have  tea  with  Aunt 
Cosie ;  and  I  was  always  pleased  when  father  would 
propose  some  fine  Sunday  afternoon  that  we  should 
walk  over  to  Fairlawn,  and  as  I  grew  older  these  visits 
were  made  more  frequently  until  it  became  part  of  our 
usual  Sunday  routine. 

Now  and  then,  when  some  old  friend  of  his  was  in 
town  whom  he  wished  to  see,  father  would  leave  me  for 
an  hour  or  two  in  Aunt  Cosie's  charge,  and  call  for  me 
later;  and  I  only  hope  the  dear  old  lady  enjoyed  these 
hours  half  as  much  as  I  did. 

I  never  thought  tea  tasted  anywhere  as  it  did  when 
Aunt  Cosie  made  it !  To  watch  her  was  a  liberal  educa- 
tion in  the  art  of  tea-making — to  see  her  pretty  old  hands 
rinsing  out  the  cups  and  then  filling  them,  and  her  dainty 
little  manipulation   of  the  sugar-tongs   and  cream- jug! 

28 


I  AM  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD 

Father  used  to  tease  her  sometimes,  and  declare  that  in 
some  previous  existence  she  must  have  been  the  wife  of 
some  grand  Japanese  Daimyo,  her  veneration  for  *'  the 
honourable  Tea  "  was  so  marked ;  but  this  speech  always 
shocked  her  excessively. 

"  How  can  you  say  such  ridiculous  things,  Philip,  in 
the  child's  hearing?  "  she  observed  once  in  a  ruffled  tone, 
"  and  on  Sunday,  too ! "  for  Aunt  Cosie  had  all  sorts  of 
old-fashioned  prim  little  ways,  which  were  excessively 
amusing  to  smart  up-to-date  people. 

Aunt  Cosie  was  not  much  of  a  reader,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  her  Bible  and  the  Times,  she  was  seldom 
seen  with  a  book  in  her  hands  on  week-days  ;  on  Sundays 
she  read  a  good  deal,  though  she  confessed  that  it  often 
made  her  drowsy.  On  other  days  she  gardened  and 
worked.  She  was  very  fond  of  knitting  and  crochet,  and 
made  the  loveliest  fleecy  shawls  and  wraps  for  her  friends. 
I  never  remember  seeing  her  idle  for  a  moment.  She 
had  what  she  called  her  fancy  work  and  her  charity  work, 
and  it  was  her  pride  and  delight  to  accumulate  a  stock 
of  warm  jerseys,  crossovers,  and  baby's  vests  and  shoes, 
to  distribute  amongst  her  poor  people  at  Christmas.  The 
drawing-room  at  Fairlawn  was  very  pleasant,  and  the 
bay  window  opened  on  the  little  lawn  with  its  beds  of 
dwarf  roses.  At  the  end  of  the  lawn  was  a  small  pergola 
covered  with  a  crimson  rambler,  and  in  one  corner  there 
was  a  rustic  seat  under  an  acacia  tree. 

Aunt  Cosie  loved  all  flowers,  but  roses  and  lilies  were 
her  favourites,  and  except  for  the  tall  white  Madonna 
lilies  it  was  almost  a  rose  garden ;  and  on  most  fine 
mornings  Aunt  Cosie  would  put  on  her  white  sun-bonnet 
and  gardening  apron  and  work  for  hours  among  her 
roses. 

I  remember  my  eighth  birthday  fell  on  a  Sunday,  and 

39 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

father  suggested  that  we  should  pay  Aunt  Cosie  a  visit. 
"  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  after  tea  for  an  hour  or  so, 
Gipsy,"  he  observed,  "  for  I  told  Colonel  Murray  that 
I  would  have  a  look  in  at  the  Club  to  wish  him  good-bye." 
But  I  assured  him  that  I  was  always  quite  happy  at 
Fairlawn.  Aunt  Cosie  had  a  very  pretty  present  ready 
for  me,  and  a  birthday  cake  with  "  Githa  "  in  pink  sugar- 
plums on  the  white  frosting;  and,  as  we  were  expected, 
there  were  all  kinds  of  good  things  for  me,  for  Aunt 
Cosie  had  a  treasure  of  a  cook,  and  all  her  friends  declared 
that  they  envied  her.  Her  name  was  Hubbard,  and  I 
always  would  call  her  Mother  Hubbard,  to  her  great 
amusement.  We  were  very  friendly  together,  and  when 
I  ate  her  crisp  short-cake  and  delicious  waffles  and  buns 
I  always  felt  a  deep  respect  and  esteem  for  her,  and  more 
than  once  I  drew  invidious  comparisons  between  her  and 
Kenny. 

When  father  had  left  us  I  drew  a  low  ottoman  closer 
to  Aunt  Cosie's  chair.  It  was  the  middle  of  April,  and 
though  there  was  a  bright  fire  in  the  grate  the  sunshine 
was  so  pleasant  that  the  tea-table  had  been  placed  near 
the  window,  for  Aunt  Cosie  loved  to  look  out  on  her 
borders  of  spring  flowers. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was  that  we  began  talking  about 
the  Redfords,  but  I  remember  that  Aunt  Cosie  told  me 
a  good  deal  about  the  family  which  interested  me  greatly, 
and  she  spoke  of  them  with  keen  appreciation.  She  told 
me  that  they  had  been  very  well  off  at  one  time,  and  that 
the  four  girls  had  all  finished  their  education  at  Paris 
and  Dresden.  "  They  had  all  the  advantages  that  wealth 
could  give,"  I  remember  her  saying.  "  Mrs.  Redford  was 
a  very  cultivated  woman.  It  was  not  until  Claudia  and 
Helen  had  returned  from  Dresden  that  their  father  failed. 
You  are  too  young  to  understand  business,  Githa;  it  is 

30 


I  AM  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD 

sufficient  for  you  to  know  that  through  no  fault  of  his 
Mr.  Redford  found  himself  a  comparatively  poor  man." 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  dreadful,  auntie." 

"  It  was  very  disastrous  certainly,  and  not  being  a 
strong  man  the  shock  caused  his  death — at  least  the 
doctors  said  so ;  but  I  think  myself  that  his  heart  had 
always  been  weak,  and  that  any  agitation  might  have 
carried  him  off."  And  then  Aunt  Cosie  went  on  to  tell 
me  that  the  beautiful  house  at  Prince's  Gate  had  to  be 
given  up,  and  that  during  the  short  year  or  two  their 
mother  lived  they  had  a  small  house  in  Chelsea. 

Mrs.  Redford's  health  had  become  seriously  impaired, 
and  the  doctors  had  long  suspected  there  was  latent 
incurable  disease.  After  her  husband's  death  this  had 
rapidly  developed,  and  even  her  daughters  were  thankful 
when  she  was  mercifully  released  from  her  suffering. 

I  was  so  interested  that  I  begged  Aunt  Cosie  to  tell 
me  more,  and  though  she  smiled  at  my  eagerness,  she 
told  me  that  she  could  not  refuse  anything  to  her  little 
girl  on  her  birthday. 

"  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Claudia  and  her  sisters  at 
that  time,"  she  went  on.  "  Claudia — your  Miss  Redford, 
Githa — was  younger  than  Helen,  but  she  was  very  man- 
aging, and  always  took  the  lead. 

"  They  were  in  sad  perplexity,  poor  girls.  Their 
mother's  long  illness  had  been  a  heavy  drain  on  their 
slender  purse,  and  when  everything  was  settled  they 
found  that  they  had  only  a  balance  of  two  hundred  pounds 
left  of  their  capital,  and  some  small  investments  which 
brought  them  in  about  ninety  pounds  a  year. 

"  I  remember  Helen  telling  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  that  they  would  be  obliged  to  give  up  their  nice 
little  house,  and  move  at  once  into  some  cheap  flat.  '  We 
have  all  made  up  our  minds  not  to  separate,  but  to  get 

31 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

daily  work,'  she  told  me ;  and  though  more  than  one 
friend  remonstrated  with  them  about  this,  they  were  bent 
on  carrying  out  their  plan.  They  were  a  very  united 
sisterhood,  and  perfectly  content  with  each  other's  society. 
The  Redfords  are  always  clannish  and  rather  reserved 
to  the  outer  world,  but  their  friends  appreciate  them  for 
all  that." 

"  And  did  they  go  to  a  flat,  Aunt  Cosie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  and  very  uncomfortable  they  found  it. 
I  remember  Cicely  saying  in  her  laughing  way  that  there 
was  not  even  room  to  swing  a  kitten ;  but  they  were 
plucky  girls, « and  made  fun  of  all  their  difficulties,  and 
they  were  so  splendidly  equipped  for  the  battle  of  life 
that  they  soon  found  occupation.  Helen  and  Claudia 
became  daily  governesses,  Cicely  gave  lessons  in  a  school, 
and  Agneta,  the  youngest,  became  reader  and  companion 
to  a  blind  lady,  and  only  came  home  now  and  then  for  a 
week-end.  Her  sisters  much  regretted  this,  but  the  dis- 
tance was  too  great,  as  Mrs.  Luxmore  lived  at  Chisle- 
hurst,  and  the  terms  were  too  good  to  refuse." 

"  But  she  comes  home  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Well,  hardly,"  returned  Aunt  Cosie,  smiling. 
"  Agneta  is  in  India  at  present  with  her  husband  and 
baby — she  married  Captain  Luxmore,  the  blind  lady's 
son ;  and  Cicely  is  married  too,  to  a  physician  in  good 
practice.  Dr.  Burford." 

I  was  very  much  surprised  to  hear  this,  and  so  dread- 
fully interested  that  Aunt  Cosie  was  quite  surprised  and 
called  me  "  Miss  Curiosity " ;  but  it  was  not  really 
curiosity.  In  my  childish  precocious  way  I  was  studying 
my  governess  under  a  new  light,  and  I  felt  more  warmly 
towards  her  now  I  knew  something  of  her  life-story. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  interest  you  to  know  that  Helen 
is  engaged  too,  to  a  young  barrister  I  know  very  well, 

32 


I  AM  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD 

Hamlyn  Seymour;  but  he  is  so  poor  that  there  is  no 
chance  of  their  being  married  for  the  next  ten  years,  as 
I  sometimes  tell  them.  Now,  Githa,  my  dear,"  as  the 
church  bells  rang  out,  "  we  have  gossiped  enough.  Surely 
you  have  some  pretty  new  hymn  to  sing  to  me.  Open  the 
piano,  my  pet — you  will  find  the  big  hymn-book  all 
ready."  I  rose  reluctantly  and  tried  to  do  my  best,  but  it 
was  a  very  feeble  attempt,  and  I  was  quite  relieved  when 
a  firm  hand  pushed  me  off  the  music-stool  and  father 
quietly  took  my  place. 

Father  sang  beautifully,  and  he  played  well  too,  and 
I  knew  how  Aunt  Cosie  loved  to  hear  him.  »She  closed 
her  eyes,  and  there  was  such  a  satisfied  look  on  her  dear 
face  as  she  listened. 

Father  insisted  on  my  joining,  and  we  sang  one  hymn 
after  another,  all  Aunt  Cosie's  favourites ;  but  by  and  by, 
when  she  asked  for  "  Sun  of  my  soul,"  he  shook  his 
head  and  said  he  was  tired,  and  then  he  got  up  abruptly. 

"  Father  never  likes  singing  that  hymn.  Aunt  Cosie," 
I  said  with  childish  want  of  tact ;  "  he  never  will  sing  it 
even  at  church." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Cosie.  "  It  is  so  beau- 
tiful, and  quite  my  favourite  hymn,  and  I  remember  it 

was "  here  Aunt  Cosie  started  and  flushed  a  little, 

and  when  father  said  good-bye  to  her  she  looked  at  him 
so  tenderly.  "  God  bless  you,  Philip,"  she  said  very 
softly ;  but  I  heard  her. 

Father  was  very  quiet  all  the  way  home ;  and  though 
I  chattered  to  him  continuously  about  the  Redfords,  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  listened  very  attentively.  When 
father  was  in  one  of  his  moods  a  person  could  never  be 
sure  how  much  he  heard ! 

He  woke  up  at  supper-time,  and  we  were  very  cosy 
together;   and  he   drank   my  health,   and   made   Hallett 
drink  too,  and  Hallett  made  me  quite  a  little  speech. 
3  33 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Mardie  had  promised  that  I  should  sit  up  until  a 
quarter  past  nine,  so  I  followed  father  to  the  library,  and 
climbed  up  on  his  knee  as  usual,  though  he  pretended 
that  I  was  far  too  old  and  heavy,  and  that  he  had  my 
favourite  complaint — a  bone  in  his  leg — but  I  knew 
better  than  to  believe  such  nonsense.  I  knew  too  well 
how  he  loved  to  have  me  there,  and  to  feel  my  curls 
against  his  cheek  as  I  leant  against  him. 

All  kinds  of  odd  things  were  buzzing  through  my 
head  that  night,  and  I  felt  that  I  must  give  them  vent. 

"  Aunt  Cosie  has  been  just  lovely  to-day,"  I  began, 
"  and  her  present  " — a  charmingly  fitted  up  writing-case 
— "  is  the  beautifullest  thing  I  ever  saw." 

"  The  most  beautiful  I  think  you  mean,  Gip." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  rather  impatiently,  for  how  was  a 
person  of  eight  on  her  birthday  to  bother  herself  with 
adverbs  and  adjectives.  "  Yours  and  Cousin  Yvonne's 
presents  were  lovely  too,"  for  father's  gift  of  a  little 
gold  Geneva  watch  was  a  source  of  intense  pride  to  me, 
though  Aunt  Cosie  had  scolded  him  for  his  extravagance, 
and  told  him  I  was  far  too  young  for  a  watch — as  though 
one  could  ever  be  too  young  to  enjoy  beautiful  things. 
Even  grown-up  people  make  mistakes,  I  thought,  when 
I  heard  Aunt  Cosie  say  this. 

"  Aunt  Cosie  is  such  a  dear,"  I  went  on.  "  She  is  so 
nice  and  smiling  always,  but  I  can't  make  out  how 
she  can  be  so  happy  living  all  alone.  This  house  is  so 
big,  father.  I  wonder  you  never  asked  her  to  live  with 
us." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  live  in  a  chronic  state  of 
wonder,  Gipsy,"  he  returned  teasingly. 

"  No,  but  truly  and  seriously,  father,"  for  I  was  not 
to  be  put  off  in  that  fashion. 

"  Well,  then,  truly  and  seriously,  I  did  suggest  some- 
thing of  the  kind  to  Aunt  Cosie  a  long  time  ago,  but  she 

34 


I  AM  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD 

did  not  seem  to  see  it — perhaps  she  thought  we  should 
not  get  on  at  such  close  quarters."  Father  spoke  a  little 
drily.  It  was  not  for  many  years  that  I  found  out  the 
reason  why  Aunt  Cosie  refused  to  share  our  home,  and 
yet  she  loved  us  both  so  dearly ! 

Father  had  just  told  me  that  I  was  always  wondering. 
I  do  not  think  I  was  more  curious  or  inquisitive  than 
other  children,  but  I  was  certainly  rather  precocious  and 
thoughtful  for  my  age. 

Why  did  neither  father  or  Mardie  ever  talk  to  me 
about  my  mother — for,  of  course,  I  must  have  had  a 
mother  like  other  children.  I  had  asked  Mardie  about 
her  once,  but  she  had  said  rather  shortly  that  when  I 
was  older  no  doubt  my  father  would  tell  me. 

"  Your  father  has  his  own  ideas  about  bringing  up 
children,"  she  continued  hurriedly.  "  He  thinks  they 
should  be  as  happy  and  free  from  care  as  the  young 
lambs  in  the  meadows,  so  he  never  talks  about  sad  things 
to  them,  but  keeps  his  troubles  to  himself  like  a  kind, 
brave  gentleman." 

I  thought  Mardie's  remarks  a  little  disconnected  and 
unconvincing,  but  her  unusual  stiffness  of  manner  pre- 
vented my  saying  so.  Of  course  it  is  sad  when  one's 
mother  dies,  even  if  one  does  not  remember  her  clearly, 
but  I  felt  in  a  dim  childish  way  that  it  would  be  much 
nicer  if  father  talked  about  her  sometimes,  and  gave  me 
the  opportunity  of  asking  questions,  but  he  never  did, 
and  I  puzzled  my  childish  brains  over  it  far  oftener  than 
Mardie  guessed. 

I  think  I  must  have  been  a  little  excited  that  evening, 
but  it  suddenly  jumped  into  my  head  that  I  must  ask 
father  one  question  that  had  been  rankling  in  my  mind 
all  the  week,  ever  since  my  last  dancing  class. 

I  had  taken  a  fancy  to  a  little  pale  girl  in  black,  and 
35 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

now  and  then  we  found  opportunity  of  a  talk  together. 
She  was  a  delicate  little  creature,  and  the  aunt  who 
brought  her  to  the  class  took  a  great  deal  of  care  of  her. 
Though  she  was  so  small  she  was  two  years  older  than 
I.  I  remember  she  told  me  her  name  and  her  age  when 
we  were  partners  together  in  the  lancers. 

"  Father,"  I  said  suddenly,  "  do  you  know,  Minnie 
Linkwater — the  little  girl  I  told  you  about  at  the  dancing 
class — said  something  so  queer  the  other  day.  She  asked 
me  if  mother's  grave  was  in  Brompton  Cemetery,  for 
she  and  her  sister  go  there  every  week  with  flowers,  and 
she  did  seem  so  surprised  when  I  said  that  I  did  not 
know." 

I  felt  father  give  a  quick  shudder  as  though  he  were 
cold,  but  the  fire  had  died  down  and  I  could  not  see  his 
face  clearly,  for  there  was  a  screen  between  us  and  the 
lamp ;  then  he  sat  bolt  upright,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  Minnie's  father  goes  with  them  sometimes,"  I  con- 
tinued plaintively,  for  I  was  bent  on  airing  my  secret 
grievance,  "  and  he  talks  so  beautifully  to  them  about 
their  mother,  and  you  never  never  talk  to  me  of  my 
mother."  Then  father  gave  a  quick  impatient  groan,  as 
though  he  were  in  pain. 

"  Githa !  "  he  said  so  reproachfully,  "  you  are  hurting 
me  very  much.  I  thought  my  little  girl  loved  me  too 
well  to  grieve  me." 

I  was  so  shocked  by  this  speech  that  my  eyes  filled 
with  tears — and  yet  what  had  I  said  ? 

"  Oh,  I  do  love  you,  I  love  you  more  than  the  whole 
world,"  I  exclaimed,  throwing  my  arms  round  his  neck; 
but  he  would  not  let  me  kiss  him,  and  his  face  looked  so 
pale  and  stem. 

"  If  you  loved  me  you  would  trust  me,  Githa,"  he 
went  on.     "  A  child  of  your  age,  a  mere  baby,  should 

36 


I  AM  EIGHT  YEARS  OLD 

not  question  her  father's  actions  or  doubt  his  wisdom. 
I  have  my  own  ideas  on  these  subjects.  If  I  do  not  talk 
to  you  about  your  mother,  it  is  because  I  prefer  silence. 
You  are  not  yet  old  enough  to  share  my  confidence.  Be 
satisfied,  my  little  Githa,  with  knowing  that  your  mother 
was  a  good  woman,  and  loved  you  dearly,  and  that  in 
this  house  her  memory  will  always  be  reverenced,  that 

in  spite  of  all "  but  here  he  stopped  and  looked  so 

strange  that  I  was  quite  frightened.  I  think  he  saw  that, 
for  he  took  me  in  his  arms  again.  "  Will  you  do  some- 
thing to  please  me,  darling?  " 

"  Anything,  anything,"  I  murmured  with  tears. 

"  No,  do  not  cry  about  it,  but  listen  to  me.  If  you 
can  help  it,  do  not  let  people  talk  to  you  about  your 
mother.  I  do  not  care  for  outsiders  to  be  inquisitive  over 
our  affairs.  If  your  little  friend  asks  you  questions,  tell 
her  that  you  would  rather  not  talk  about  it.  Will  you 
do  this,  Githa?" 

"  Yes,  father,  I  will  do  anything  rather  than  make 
you  unhappy,"  and  then  he  kissed  me  in  his  old  way. 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  Then  I  will  promise,  on  my 
part,  that  when  you  are  older,  and  the  right  time  has 
come,  that  I  will  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know — but  not 
yet,  my  girUe,"  and  then  he  sighed  and  kissed  me  again, 
and  told  me  to  run  off  to  Mardie  or  she  would  think  I 
was  lost. 

I  am  sure  Mardie  knew  I  had  been  crying,  but  she 
asked  no  questions,  only  gave  me  a  great  hug  when  she 
tucked  me  up,  and  bade  me  go  to  sleep  and  dream  of  my 
presents. 

I  could  not  at  once  follow  her  advice,  for  I  was  so 
wide-awake,  and  it  made  me  so  dreadfully  unhappy  to 
remember  father's  pained  expression.  I  could  not  bear 
to  think  I  had  hurt  him;  and  as  for  loving  and  trusting 

37 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

him,  he  need  never  doubt  me  again.     I  would  rather  be 
silent  all  my  life  than  displease  or  grieve  him. 

I  suppose  I  was  tired  out,  for  I  cried  myself  to  sleep 
at  last,  and  only  half-awake  when  some  one  kissed  my 
forehead  and  murmured,  "  God  keep  my  treasure,"  but 
I  roused  up  when  the  door  had  closed. 

Of  course  it  was  father.  He  often  stole  in  to  wish 
me  good-night,  and  I  was  so  happy  to  think  that  he 
had  done  it  to-night,  and  on  my  birthday,  that  I  turned 
over  on  my  pillow  again  and  was  soon  in  dreamland. 


38 


IV 

I  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HELEN 


Children  have  the  effect  on  your  spirit  that  morning  air  has 
on  your  body.  There  is  no  exhaustion  in  them ;  they  are  charged 
with  life,  and  health,  and  sunshine. — R  W.  Barham. 

I  shall  be  then  a  garden  charmed  from  changing. 
In  which  your  June  has  never  passed  away. 
Walk  there  awhile  among  my  memories. 

Alice  Meynkll. 

It  was  not  until  Miss  Redford  had  been  at  St.  Olave's 
for  nearly  a  year  that  I  made  my  acquaintance  with  her 
sister  Helen,  and  then  it  was  only  owing  to  accident. 

We  were  just  returning  from  our  morning  walk  one 
day,  and  I  was  chattering  away  as  fast  as  my  extremely 
limited  stock  of  French  phrases  would  permit,  when  a 
big  raindrop  fell  on  my  face,  and  Miss  Redford  exclaimed 
in  rather  a  troubled  voice : 

"  We  must  hurry  as  much  as  possible,  Githa,  for  we 
have  no  umbrella,  and  we  are  still  some  distance  from 
home.  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  a  regular  downpour 
directly,  and  you  have  a  little  cold,  Mrs.  Marland  tells 
me,"  but  though  I  quickened  my  steps  into  a  run  to  keep 
up  with  her  my  efforts  were  of  no  avail,  for  it  began  to 
rain  in  earnest. 

"  Our  flat  is  only  round  the  corner,"  she  continued, 
"  and  we  can  take  shelter  there  while  the  shower  lasts. 
Take  my  hand  and  let  us  make  a  run  for  it " ;  and, 

39 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

laughing  and  breathless,  we  found  ourselves  a  minute 
later  in  our  refuge. 

I  was  quite  delighted  with  this  unexpected  interlude, 
and  when  we  had  shaken  ourselves  and  regained  our 
breath  Miss  Redford  rapidly  ascended  three  flights  of 
stairs  and  let  herself  into  the  flat  with  her  latchkey,  and 
I  followed  into  the  narrow  entry,  which  at  first  seemed 
rather  dark.  As  we  entered  another  tall  young  lady  in 
brown,  a  fair  edition  of  my  Miss  Redford,  but,  as  I 
discovered  afterwards,  far  better-looking  than  she,  came 
out  from  the  sitting-room ;  she  seemed  very  surprised  to 
see  her  sister  at  this  hour. 

"  Why,  Claudia,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  good  wind 
has  blown  you  in  this  direction  so  early  in  the  day?" 
Then  she  caught  sight  of  me.  "  This  must  be  your 
pupil,  little  Miss  Darnell  " ;  and  she  took  my  hand  and 
kissed  me  so  kindly.  I  remember  I  was  rather  surprised, 
for  it  was  some  weeks  before  Miss  Redford  left  off 
shaking  hands  with  me;  but  then  she  was  not  a  demon- 
strative person,  as  Mardie  observed,  and  with  her,  kisses 
were,  like  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  between. 

I  was  pleased  to  find  Miss  Helen  Redford  so  friendly, 
and  I  liked  her  at  once.  She  had  such  a  nice  restful  face, 
though  it  was  rather  pale  and  tired-looking;  and  though 
she  had  the  Redford  voice,  it  was  gentle  and  rather  sweet, 
though,  as  I  found  out  afterwards,  all  the  other  sisters 
spoke  in  the  same  quick,  crisp  fashion. 

"  We  were  caught  in  the  rain,  Nell,"  explained  my 
governess,  "  and  the  child  has  a  little  cold ;  it  was  care- 
less of  me  to  leave  our  umbrellas  at  home,  but  it  looked 
so  fine  when  we  started."  And  then  they  both  divested 
me  of  my  hat  and  jacket,  and  Miss  Redford  took  me 
into  a  very  small  bedroom  and  dried  my  hair.  The  room 
was  very  pretty,  I  thought,  and  there  were  a  good  many 

40 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HELEN 

beautiful  silver  things  on  the  toilet-table ;  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  hardly  room  to  pass  between  the 
bed  and  chest  of  drawers. 

I  asked  Miss  Redford,  as  she  put  me  tidy,  if  this 
was  her  room,  and  she  said  "  Yes,"  and  that  her  sister's 
was  exactly  like  it ;  and  then  we  went  into  the  sitting- 
room,  where  we  found  Miss  Helen  Redford  doing  some 
lovely  embroidery  in  a  frame.  She  told  me  it  was  church 
work,  and  that  she  and  three  other  young  ladies  were 
trying  to  finish  an  altar  frontal  by  Christmas  for  a  mission 
church  in  Battersea,  which  was  extremely  poor,  and  had 
only  shabby  things  for  use. 

"  I  wish  I  could  give  more  time  to  it,"  she  continued 
wistfully;  but  her  sister  chimed  in  in  her  quick  decided 
way: 

"  You  ought  never  to  have  undertaken  it,  Helen ; 
you  have  already  far  too  much  to  do.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  the  Pritchards  and  Cissie  Brown,  for  they  have  no 
teaching  or  any  other  occupation  to  tire  them." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  daresay  you  are  right,"  returned  Helen 
good-humouredly ;  "  but  it  does  so  rest  me  to  get  to  it 
for  an  hour.  I  have  been  making  the  most  of  my  holiday, 
Claud.  Why,  it  is  nearly  one  o'clock ;  I  must  have  been 
more  than  three  hours  at  it." 

"  Nearly  one,"  observed  Miss  Redford  in  a  disturbed 
tone;  and  then  she  and  Helen  exchanged  glances. 

"I  am  afraid  the  rain  has  set  in  for  an  hour  or  two," 
continued  Helen.  "  Poor  Claudia !  but  accidents  will 
happen  sometimes.  Mrs.  Brant  will  be  going  home  soon, 
and  we  could  easily  get  her  to  take  a  message  to 
St.  Olave's  Lodge."  Then  Miss  Redford  brightened  up 
at  this. 

"  That  is  a  good  idea,  Nell.  I  will  send  a  line  to 
Mrs.  Marland  and  tell  her  we  are  weather-bound;  the 

41 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

good  soul  always  gets  so  flustered  and  anxious  if  Githa 
is  half  an  hour  late.  But  that  reminds  me,  how  will  you 
manage  ?  "  but  here  Helen  put  her  finger  on  her  lip  with 
a  significant  look. 

"  Write  your  note,  Claudia,  and  I  will  come  and  speak 
to  you  directly  " ;  but  Miss  Redford  had  scarcely  left 
the  room  before  Helen  had  followed  her,  and  I  was  left 
alone. 

I  made  good  use  of  my  time  by  inspecting  all  the 
pictures  and  photographs.  The  room  was  not  large,  and 
it  was  crowded  with  furniture,  but  it  was  very  pretty 
and  cosy;  there  was  a  piano  and  a  harp — Helen  played 
the  harp,  I  learned — and  an  Indian  cabinet  full  of  china, 
which  I  heard  afterwards  was  extremely  valuable.  There 
was  a  writing-table,  too,  and  some  delicious  easy-chairs, 
and  some  of  the  pictures  were  beautiful ;  perhaps  it  was 
a  little  too  much  like  a  curiosity  shop,  and  there  seemed 
hardly  room  for  Helen's  frame. 

I  was  getting  very  hungry  by  this  time.  I  wondered 
if  Miss  Helen  would  ask  us  to  have  any  luncheon,  and 
then  an  appetising  whiff  reached  me ;  and  the  next 
moment  she  came  in  smiling  and  took  me  into  the  next 
room. 

It  was  the  smallest,  funniest  little  dining-room  I  ever 
saw.  There  was  only  just  room  for  a  round  table  and 
four  chairs  beside  the  fire-place,  and  an  oak  corner  cup- 
board; you  could  not  move  without  coming  into  contact 
with  the  walls.  I  remember  how  I  enjoyed  the  fried 
eggs  and  bacon ;  and  though  there  was  no  pudding,  there 
was  an  abundance  of  sweet  biscuits  and  some  delicious 
preserve — I  think  it  was  guava  jelly. 

"  You  see,  Githa,"  observed  Miss  Redford  in  her  calm 
matter-of-fact-tone,  "my  sister  and  I  are  generally  out 
until  six,  so  there  was  no  luncheon  provided,  but  I  don't 

42 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HELEN 

think  we  have  done  so  badly  after  all,"  and  I  hastened 
to  assure  her  that  fried  eggs  and  bacon  was  my  favourite 
dish,  and  that  I  enjoyed  my  luncheon  more  than  usual. 

"  Little  folk  are  easily  pleased,"  observed  Helen  pleas- 
antly, and  then  she  found  me  an  interesting  book  which 
she  said  her  own  pupils  loved.  It  was  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy,  and  I  found  it  so  fascinating  that  I  was  soon 
absorbed  in  its  contents. 

The  sisters  left  me  alone  for  somiC  time,  but  as  the 
flat  was  small  I  could  hear  their  brisk  movements  and 
voices  quite  plainly ;  presently  they  came  back  looking 
very  neat  and  trim,  and  Miss  Redford,  who  was  embroid- 
ering a  frock  for  a  baby  niece,  sat  down  to  her  work 
while  Helen  returned  to  her  frame. 

They  spoke  to  me  now  and  then,  but  I  was  almost 
too  engrossed  with  my  book  to  answer;  it  was  not  until 
the  light  was  fading,  and  I  was  getting  tired  of  reading, 
that  I  took  any  notice  of  their  talk.  When  I  did  so, 
Helen  was  speaking. 

"  We  were  both  so  taken  up  yesterday  with  Cicely's 
party  that  I  never  told  you  that  Hamlyn  looked  in  on 
his  way  to  town ;  he  told  me  he  had  just  come  across 
Elmer  Pelham." 

Miss  Redford  looked  up  quickly. 

"Well,  did  he  give  any  account  of  himself?"  in  an 
interested  tone. 

"  Yes,  he  has  been  away.  His  brother  was  ill,  and 
he  had  to  go  to  Liverpool.  Hamlyn  says  he  asked  after 
us  very  particularly.  Cicely  told  me  she  intends  sending 
him  a  card  for  the  19th." 

"  That  is  nice  of  Cicely,  as  I  know  she  is  rather  afraid 
of  him ;  she  will  have  it  that  he  is  so  satirical." 

"  I  think  she  is  right  there ;  Mr.  Pelham  quizzes 
people  unmercifully." 

43 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Only  people  who  pose  and  make  themselves  ridicu- 
lous," continued  her  sister  hastily ;  "  he  is  far  too  kind- 
hearted  to  hurt  any  one's  feelings." 

"  Oh,  I  might  have  known  you  would  defend  him, 
Claud,"  returned  Helen  in  an  amused  voice ;  "  for  all 
your  sparring  and  word-play  you  two  always  stick  up 
for  each  other," 

"  I  always  stick  up  for  my  friends,"  observed  Miss 
Redford,  "  and  then  I  am  so  sorry  for  him ;  he  seems  so 
heavily  handicapped,  no  one  to  give  him  a  helping  hand." 

"  He  is  not  worse  off  in  that  respect  than  my  poor 
Hamlyn." 

"  Oh,  but  Hamlyn  has  you,  my  dear  Nell ;  that  makes 
all  the  difference." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Helen  was  about  to  say  some- 
thing when  she  saw  me  looking  at  her,  and  changed  her 
mind. 

"  How  dark  it  is,  Claud ;  I  dare  not  try  my  eyes  any 
longer.  I  shall  go  and  get  tea.  I  think  the  rain  is  stop- 
ping now,  and  that  it  will  soon  clear  up  " ;  and  she  was 
right,  so  when  we  had  finished  tea  we  made  haste  to  get 
ready  for  our  walk  home.  Father  often  returned  early, 
and  he  would  not  like  to  miss  my  greeting.  I  remember 
how  kind  Miss  Helen  was  to  me,  and  the  way  she 
smoothed  my  unruly  locks.  "  What  a  gipsy  the  child 
is,"  she  observed,  shaking  my  thick  mane  in  an  admiring 
way.  "  Will  you  come  and  see  me  again,  Githa?  "  I  told 
her  with  the  utmost  sincerity  and  earnestness  that  I 
should  love  to  come,  and  then  she  kissed  me  as  though 
she  were  pleased,  and  told  her  sister  that  she  must  some- 
times bring  me  to  tea  on  Wednesday ;  for  Miss  Helen 
had  two  half-holidays  in  the  week,  while  my  governess 
had  only  one,  but  then,  as  I  found  out  later,  her  summer 
vacation  was  far  shorter. 

44 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HELEN 

I  think  Miss  Redford  was  pleased  at  my  eagerness 
to  revisit  the  flat,  but  she  told  me  that  I  must  get  my 
father's  leave,  for  she  was  extremely  punctilious  and  care- 
ful to  ascertain  his  opinion  on  every  point.  They  met 
seldom,  for  she  never  had  luncheon  with  us  on  Saturdays 
when  father  was  at  home,  and  unless  he  appointed  a 
specified  time  he  rarely  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  her.  On  this  evening,  however,  he  had  returned  home 
earlier  than  usual,  and  as  Hallett  admitted  us  I  saw  him 
coming  out  of  the  library. 

"Better  late  than  never,  Gip,"  he  called  out.  "  Come 
and  give  an  account  of  yourself,  you  monkey,"  and  then 
he  shook  hands  with  Miss  Redford,  and  thanked  her  for 
taking  such  good  care  of  me.  "  Nurse  Marland  has  just 
brought  me  your  note ;  in  another  minute  I  should  have 
sent  Hallett  in  a  cab  to  fetch  Githa,  but  as  it  is  quite  fine 
now  I  do  not  suppose  her  late  walk  has  hurt  her." 

I  think  father  expected  Miss  Redford  to  come  in, 
but  she  told  him  that  she  must  hurry  back,  as  she  and  her 
sister  were  going  out  to  dinner.  He  wanted  to  send  for 
a  hansom,  but  she  would  not  hear  of  it  for  a  moment, 
though  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  took  his  civility  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

The  Redfords  could  never  forget  the  old  days  at 
Prince's  Gate,  and  though  they  were  now  working  women 
they  still  held  their  heads  high,  and  considered  themselves 
equal  to  any  one. 

"  Oh,  father,"  I  exclaimed,  blinking  a  little  in  the 
bright  light,  "  I  have  had  such  a  lovely  time ;  it  was  such 
fun  running  through  the  rain  and  having  luncheon  in 
the  flat.  It  is  just  like  a  doll-house,  and  crammed  so  full 
of  nice  things  that  one  could  hardly  move,  and  Miss 
Helen  Redford  is  such  a  dear.  She  is  prettier  than  my 
Miss  Redford,  and  so  kind,  and  she  wants  me  to  have 

45 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

tea   with  her   sometimes   on  Wednesdays.     May   I   go, 
father  dear  ?  " 

"  We  will  see  what  Aunt  Cosie  says,"  he  replied 
kindly,  for  he  always  consults  Aunt  Cosie  about  me — 
not  that  he  always  took  her  advice,  though  he  gave 
himself  a  good  deal  of  trouble  sometimes  to  ascertain 
her  opinion. 

I  found  Aunt  Cosie  quite  approved  of  the  invitation. 
The  Redford  girls,  as  she  called  them,  were  her  pet 
proteges,  and  Helen  was  decidedly  her  favourite.  "  By 
all  means  let  Githa  go  as  often  as  she  likes,"  had  been 
her  answer.  "  She  will  gain  nothing  but  good  from  her 
intercourse  with  them.  Helen  Redford  is  a  dear  sweet 
girl,  though  this  unlucky  engagement  to  Hamlyn  Seymour 
will  make  an  old  woman  of  her  before  her  time." 

A  few  days  later  I  told  my  governess  that  father  and 
Aunt  Cosie  would  be  very  pleased  for  me  to  have  tea 
with  her  sister  whenever  she  liked  to  take  me ;  and  she 
smiled  and  said  that  she  must  consult  Helen,  and  that 
if  I  learned  my  lessons  well  for  the  next  fortnight  she 
would  try  and  get  me  an  invitation.  And  after  this  it 
became  an  understood  thing  that  all  future  visits  should 
be  rewards  for  diligence. 

I  always  enjoyed  these  Wednesday  afternoons,  and 
I  liked  Miss  Helen  more  and  more.  I  was  becoming 
much  attached  to  Miss  Redford  also.  I  found  one  could 
always  depend  on  her.  She  was  a  person  without  moods ; 
she  was  invariably  kind,  not  by  fits  and  starts  like  some 
people,  and  she  never  said  a  word  that  she  did  not  mean ; 
and  in  my  childish  way  I  guessed  how  good  she  would 
be  to  me  if  I  were  in  any  trouble.  I  am  glad  that  I  did 
her  justice,  for  in  her  quiet  undemonstrative  way  I  know 
she  loved  me  dearly,  and  that  there  was  nothing  she  would 
not  have  done  for  me. 

46 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HELEN 

"  I  was  always  your  friend,  Githa,"  she  said  years 
afterwards.  "  Of  course  I  know  that  for  a  time  you  Hked 
Helen  best,  but  that  was  only  natural.  She  was  not  your 
governess,  and  she  never  fretted  you  with  tiresome  rules 
and  regulations.  And  then  Helen  has  a  way  of  her  own 
with  children ;  she  knows  how  to  draw  them  out  and 
interest  them.  I  tell  her  it  is  quite  a  gift.  I  am  afraid 
I  never  had  it  myself,"  and  she  gave  a  quick  little  sigh 
that  touched  me. 

I  know  now  that  Miss  Redford  was  right.  I  always 
found  it  easier  to  tell  Miss  Helen  things.  She  never 
seemed  shocked,  but  only  quietly  amused  when  I  blurted 
out  my  childish  opinions. 

I  remember  one  afternoon  Miss  Redford  had  an 
engagement,  and  left  me  for  an  hour  with  her  sister, 
promising  to  be  back  by  tea-time.  Miss  Helen  had  given 
me  some  wool  to  wind,  and  I  was  very  happy  talking 
to  her. 

"  Miss  Helen,"  I  said  suddenly,  "  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  spoke  to  us  on 
Monday.  Miss  Redford  seemed  to  know  him  very  well, 
for  we  stopped  quite  a  long  time  before  she  said  good- 
bye." 

I  thought  Miss  Helen  looked  amused,  and  I  was  sure 
from  her  manner  that  she  knew  of  whom  I  was  speaking, 
but  she  would  not  give  herself  away. 

"  A  gentleman  is  rather  vague,  Githa ;  you  must 
describe  him  better  than  that  before  I  can  answer  you." 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  dreadfully  ugly  man." 

This  seemed  to  puzzle  her. 

"  Ugly  ?  "  she  repeated  doubtfully. 

"  Yes ;  he  had  a  long  pointed  chin,  and  no  hair  on 
his  face,  and  when  he  laughed  he  was  all  crinkly  round 
his  eyes." 

47 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

**  Why,  bless  the  child,  it  could  be  no  one  else  but 
Elmer  Pelham !  but  what  put  it  into  your  absurd  little 
head  to  think  him  ugly  ?  He  has  quite  a  nice  clever  face, 
though  he  is  not  handsome."  But  I  was  in  the  mood  to 
be  contradictious. 

"  Mr.  Seymour  is  not  a  bit  handsome  either,"  I 
observed  in  my  precocious  manner,  "  but  I  like  the  look  of 
him  " ;  and  Miss  Helen  blushed  a  little,  but  I  could  see  she 
was  pleased. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  she  said  gently ;  "  but  I  am  sure 
if  you  knew  him  better  you  would  not  think  Mr.  Pelham 
ugly.  Somehow  when  one  likes  a  person  one  never  con- 
siders if  he  be  good-looking  or  plain,"  But  I  was  too 
young  to  understand  this. 

As  time  went  on  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Pelham, 
for  Aunt  Cosie  coaxed  father  to  show  him  some  attention, 
and  now  and  then  he  came  to  dinner.  I  heard  Aunt 
Cosie  tell  father  that  Elmer  Pelham  was  very  poor  and 
proud,  and  had  few  friends.  "  He  cannot  afford  to  go 
much  into  society,  and,  with  the  exception  of  an  elder 
brother,  he  has  only  distant  relations.  He  is  a  clever, 
good-hearted  man,  and  a  little  kindness  would  not  be 
thrown  away  on  him,  Philip  " ;  and  as  father  often  acted 
on  Aunt  Cosie's  advice,  Mr.  Pelham  was  always  a  wel- 
come guest. 

I  soon  became  friends  with  him,  and  he  often  told 
me  amusing  stories,  and  I  ceased  to  think  him  ugly. 
Indeed,  I  once  confided  to  Helen  that  but  for  his  crinkly 
eyes  he  would  not  be  so  bad-looking  after  all.  I  fancy 
she  repeated  this  speech  to  Claudia,  for  I  heard  them 
laughing  together  in  the  next  room,  but  of  course  she 
took  no  apparent  notice.  Miss  Redford  was  always  very 
careful  to  uphold  the  dignity  of  her  office. 


V 
COUSIN  YVONNE 


The  foundation  of  every  noble  character  is  sincerity. — Anon. 

Character  is  far  more  an  inspiration  than  a  manufacture. 
Toil  of  discipline  and  patience  of  culture  may  accomplish  wonders 
in  shaping  a  soul,  but  the  uplook  of  a  reverent  love  to  a  nobler 
nature  will  draw  down  into  the  inner  springs  of  the  being  the 
forces  of  that  better  life. — Helen  Newton. 

I  AM  afraid  I  am  writing  my  childish  reminiscences  in 
rather  a  disjointed  and  cursory  manner,  just  putting 
down  things  that  come  into  my  head — people,  faces, 
scenes  and  scraps  of  conversation — little  shadowy 
glimpses  of  the  child  Githa,  and  those  who  loved  her ;  a 
jumble  or  patchwork  of  odds  and  ends,  without  method 
or  arrangement.  All  this  time  I  have  only  made  a  casual 
mention  of  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  yet,  next  to  father  and 
Aunt  Cosie  and  Mardie,  she  had  the  greatest  influence  on 
my  young  life. 

Mrs.  Darnell  was  a  cousin  of  my  father's,  a  second 
cousin,  I  believe,  but  she  was  some  years  younger  than 
he.  I  never  heard  anything  of  her  husband.  I  once 
asked  father  if  he  had  liked  him,  and  he  said  "  not  par- 
ticularly "  rather  drily,  "  but  that  most  of  his  friends 
had  thought  him  a  good  fellow."  He  advised  me  very 
seriously  not  to  mention  him  to  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  being 
a  loyal  little  creature  I  always  did  my  best  to  obey  him ; 
but  I  privately  thought  that  grown-up  people  were  too 
fond  of  mysteries,  for  being  a  chatter-box  by  nature  I 
never  liked  to  hold  my  tongue  about  anything.  It  is  so 
4  49 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

much  more  interesting  to  wonder  about  things  aloud,  and 
to  talk  over  them  comfortably.  Mardie  used  to  shake  her 
head  when  I  said  this.  "You  are  a  rare  talker,  my 
dearie,"  she  would  say ;  "  your  tongue  runs  from  morning 
to  night  like  a  little  purling  brook.  When  you  are  older. 
Miss  Githa,  you  will  find  out  for  yourself  that  it  is  often 
wiser  to  be  silent — but  there,  you  have  not  cut  your 
wisdom  teeth  yet,"  for  Mardie  never  could  bring  herself 
to  find  fault  with  me. 

I  was  very  fond  of  Cousin  Yvonne.  I  think  I  really 
loved  her  better  than  Aunt  Cosie,  but  I  never  quite  under- 
stood her. 

Until  Sydney  came  she  lived  alone  in  a  pretty  cottage 
called  Prior's  Cot  at  Bayfield.  Even  in  those  days  I 
used  to  think  Bayfield  a  sort  of  earthly  paradise,  and  I 
do  not  think  I  have  changed  my  opinion  yet.  If  I  loved 
it  in  my  childish  days,  it  is  still  dearer  to  me  now ! 

I  fancy  a  good  many  people  thought  Bayfield  a  nice 
place.  It  was  only  a  mile  from  the  river,  but  it  was  a 
countrified  quiet  spot,  with  lanes  and  a  goose  green,  and 
such  a  charming  church  and  vicarage ;  and  there  were 
pleasant  houses  dotted  here  and  there,  some  of  them 
standing  high  in  extensive  grounds,  with  a  delightful 
view  of  the  white  shining  river  and  the  boat-houses.  I 
remember  how  surprised  I  was  when  father  first  told  me 
that  it  was  the  same  river  that  we  saw  from  Cheyne  Walk. 
It  seemed  to  me  so  much  broader  and  more  beautiful,  and 
there  were  no  water-lilies  or  rushes  in  our  part ;  and  then 
father  smiled  in  a  funny  way,  and  said  that  water-lilies 
did  not  flourish  at  Battersea. 

Prior's  Cot  was  not  far  from  the  Vicarage,  but  it  was 
a  very  secluded  little  place.  It  was  half-way  down  a 
green  lane,  and  there  was  no  other  house  near  it.  Cousin 
Yvonne  said  that  this  was  a  recommendation  in  her  eyes, 

so 


COUSIN  YVONNE 

for  she  would  hate  to  be  overlooked  by  neighbours. 
"  When  I  want  my  friends  I  can  go  to  them,  or  they  can 
come  to  me,  but  I  am  fond  of  my  own  society,  and  I  am 
never  dull  alone " — how  often  I  have  heard  Cousin 
Yvonne  say  this. 

Prior's  Cot  was  certainly  an  ideal  cottage.  It  had  a 
deep  porch  always  filled  with  flowers,  and  the  red-brick 
walls  were  almost  smothered  with  creepers,  roses,  jessa- 
mine, and  wistaria,  not  to  mention  honeysuckle  and 
clematis — a  perfect  medley  of  lovely  things,  trying  which 
could  climb  highest.  And  then  the  garden  which  sur- 
rounded the  cottage — how  Cousin  Yvonne  loved  her 
garden !  I  think  I  never  saw  flowers  in  greater  profusion. 
In  summer  time  the  bees  and  butterflies  came  in  troops 
to  the  royal  feast  of  floral  dainties  spread  so  richly  before 
them.  But  I  liked  the  wild  garden  best.  It  was  a  perfect 
joy  in  spring  to  see  the  primroses  like  a  sheet  of  pale 
gold,  and  little  blue  pools  of  wild  hyacinths.  And  then 
there  were  nooks  where  one  could  find  violets  and  forget- 
me-nots. 

There  was  an  old  wall  in  one  part  with  crumbling 
masonry  and  half-rotting  stones;  here  in  their  season 
bloomed  masses  of  wall-flowers,  blood-red  and  purple, 
buff-yellow  and  orange,  a  perfect  glory  of  tints.  Close 
by  this  was  a  big  rock-garden,  where  hardy  ferns  grew 
in  profusion,  and  here  one  could  gather  the  double 
cuckoo-flower — Cousin  Yvonne  told  me  once  that  Lady's 
Smock  was  its  old  English  name.  "  It  is  rather  an  appro- 
priate name,"  she  observed,  "  for  I  remember  reading  a 
description  of  it  where  the  writer  remarked  quaintly, '  that 
its  close  masses  of  whitish  bloom  might  well  remind  one 
of  linen  wear  laid  out  to  bleach.' "  In  the  rock-garden 
one  could  often  find  the  common  speedwell  and  thrift, 
and  all  kinds  of  lovely  wild-growing  weeds.     1  used  to 

51 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

think  that  the  wild  garden  never  needed  any  care  or 
attention,  but  as  I  grew  older  I  soon  found  out  my  mis- 
take, and  that  Cousin  Yvonne  had  expended  a  vast 
amount  of  thought  and  energy  before  she  brought  it  to  its 
present  perfection.    She  once  explained  matters  to  me. 

"  You  have  no  idea,  Githa,  what  an  overgrown  wilder- 
ness it  was  when  I  first  came  to  the  cottage — every  path 
blocked  up  with  brambles  and  nettles,  and  so  damp  too. 
I  took  Moyle  into  my  confidence  " — Moyle  was  Cousin 
Yvonne's  gardener  and  factotum — "  and  I  read  up  all 
the  books  I  could  find  about  wild  gardens  and  rockeries, 
and  then  we  set  to  work — at  least  Moyle  did — clearing 
paths  and  lopping  branches  and  getting  rid  of  the  nettles 
and  noxious  weeds.  And  then  when  he  had  made  things 
a  little  tidy,  and  it  was  possible  to  walk  there  with  dry 
feet,  I  set  about  beautifying  it.  We  turned  the  old  wall 
to  account  for  all  lime-loving  plants,  and  used  a  heap 
of  stones  for  the  construction  of  a  rock-garden.  Then 
we  planted  in  every  available  place  violets  and  primroses 
and  daffodils  and  wild  hyacinths,  and  all  the  hardy  ferns 
we  could  collect.  I  am  rather  proud  of  my  success,"  she 
continued,  "  and  in  spring  it  is  a  joy  to  me  to  see  the 
violets  peeping  out  from  their  nest  of  leaves."  And 
I  remember,  as  we  paced  down  the  little  path  bordered 
with  bracken,  that  she  quoted  softly  some  favourite  verses 
that  we  both  loved : 

God  does  not  give  us  new  flowers  every  year ; 
When  the  spring  winds  blow  o'er  the  pleasant  places. 
The  same  dear  things  lift  up  the  same  dear  faces; 
The  violet  is  here ! 

It  all  comes  back — the  colour,  grace,  and  hue; 
Each  sweet  relation  of  its  life  repeated, 
No  blank  is  left,  no  longing  for  is  cheated : 
It  is  the  thing  we  knew. 

52 


COUSIN  YVONNE 

It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  hear  Cousin  Yvonne 
repeat  poetry.  She  had  a  deep  musical  voice,  which 
seemed  to  rise  and  fall  rhythmically  with  the  metre. 

Prior's  Cot  had  been  originally  built  by  a  lady  in 
good  circumstances,  and  was  intended  as  a  country  retreat 
for  herself  and  an  invalid  daughter ;  but  the  latter's  sudden 
death  gave  her  mother  a  distaste  for  the  place,  and  it  had 
not  been  inhabited  when  Cousin  Yvonne  bought  it.  I 
believe  she  paid  a  good  deal  for  it. 

It  was  extremely  well  built,  and  by  no  means  small. 
The  porch  opened  into  a  large  square  hall,  which  Cousin 
Yvonne  fitted  up  as  a  sitting-room,  and  used  in  the  hot 
weather.  Here  there  was  a  small  organ.  The  drawing- 
room  was  long  and  somewhat  low,  with  charming  nooks 
and  corners,  and  front  and  back  it  opened  on  the  verandah 
which  surrounded  the  cottage.  In  winter  this  made  the 
rooms  a  little  dull,  but  Cousin  Yvonne  always  kept 
glorious  fires,  for  she  loved  cosiness.  All  the  bedrooms 
had  pleasant  views.  Cousin  Yvonne's,  who  slept  in  the 
front,  had  a  side  window,  looking  up  the  lane,  and 
through  a  break  in  the  trees  there  was  a  pretty  glimpse 
of  the  church  and  vicarage.  My  room  was  at  the  back, 
and  overlooked  the  garden  and  wilderness,  as  we  some- 
times called  it.  Just  beyond  was  a  little  wood,  and  set 
against  a  dark  background  one  could  just  see  the  white 
turret  of  St.  Helen's  Tower,  where  Lady  Wilde  lived. 

There  was  an  old  medlar-tree  in  the  wild  garden, 
which  was  very  easy  and  safe  for  a  girl  to  climb ;  and 
as  Cousin  Yvonne  never  objected  to  my  doing  so,  I  used 
to  love  to  sit  in  the  low  branches  and  gaze  down  into 
the  heart  of  the  little  wood,  which  always  looked  so  green 
and  pleasant  to  my  childish  eyes.  When  Sydney  came 
we  used  to  spend  hours  in  the  old  medlar-tree,  and  I 
often  made  up  stories  about  the  wood  and  about  a  poor 

53 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

little  princess  who  roamed  there.  I  did  so  like  telling 
Sydney  stories,  she  was  such  an  interested  listener,  and 
then  she  always  said  I  was  so  clever  and  told  them  so 
well. 

Lady  Wilde  was  a  widow,  and  her  only  son  was  dead ; 
but  her  orphaned  grandson  lived  with  her.  Thurston 
was  three  or  four  years  older  than  I,  and  he  was  far 
too  big  a  boy  to  play  with  a  little  girl  of  my  age.  He 
was  a  dark-complexioned,  handsome  lad.  He  had,  I 
fancy,  a  foreign  strain  in  his  blood.  Some  one  told  me 
his  mother  had  been  Andalusian  by  birth,  and  had  been 
either  a  singer  or  dancer,  I  forget  which ;  but  I  know 
that  Lady  Wilde  had  objected  to  the  marriage,  and  that 
during  her  daughter-in-law's  life  she  held  herself  severely 
aloof  from  the  young  couple. 

In  his  careless  boyish  way  Thurston  took  a  good  deal 
of  notice  of  me.  He  was  rather  a  lonely  boy,  for  his 
grandmother  was  exceedingly  strict  with  him.  He  used 
to  bring  me  flowers  and  speckled  eggs  and  peacock 
feathers,  and  petted  me  a  good  deal ;  he  always  wanted  to 
call  me  Gipsy,  but  I  never  would  allow  it,  for  no  one 
but  father  ever  used  that  name.  I  remember  he  argued 
about  it  for  a  long  time  one  afternoon.  "  Of  course 
Mr.  Darnell  calls  you  Gipsy,"  he  said  quite  impatiently; 
"  and  every  one  ought  to  call  you  that  too.  You  are  just 
a  little  Romany  girl,  Githa,  with  your  brown  face  and  dark 
eyes ;  and  when  you  tied  that  crimson  thing  over  your 
curls,  you  should  just  have  seen  yourself."  But  I  would 
not  be  convinced ;  it  was  father's  pet  name  and  sacred 
to  his  dear  lips — not  even  Cousin  Yvonne  or  Aunt  Cosie 
ever  used  it.  Thurston  was  so  tiresome  and  so  persistent 
that  I  cried  about  it  at  last,  and  he  told  me  that  I  was  a 
baby  and  marched  oflF  in  dudgeon ;  but  after  that  he  never 
attempted  to  use  it  again. 

54 


COUSIN  YVONNE 

I  was  very  fond  of  Thurston,  and  so  was  Cousin 
Yvonne,  but  when  Sydney  Herbert  came  to  live  at  Prior's 
Cot  he  seemed  to  prefer  her  society  to  mine.  She  was 
a  year  and  a  half  older — a  nice-looking  girl,  with  a 
clear  skin  and  Irish  grey  eyes,  and  with  plenty  of  Irish 
fun. 

I  became  perfectly  devoted  to  Sydney,  but  my  childish 
breast  was  secretly  wounded  by  Thurston's  fickleness, 
but  I  was  far  too  proud  to  say  so.  I  made  believe  not 
to  mind  when  Thurston  began  giving  her  things ;  and 
when  occasionally  he  seemed  to  forget  my  existence  I 
bit  my  lips  to  keep  the  tears  back  and  ran  ofif  to  Cousin 
Yvonne,  and  she  always  seemed  to  understand  and  wel- 
comed me  so  kindly. 

"  Two  are  company,  and  three  are  none,"  she  would 
say  sometimes ;  but  I  have  reason  to  know  that  she  spoke 
rather  seriously  to  Thurston. 

"  You  ought  not  to  keep  poor  Githa  out  of  things," 
I  overheard  her  say  once.  "  You  are  an  ungrateful  boy, 
Thurston,  for  the  child  is  so  fond  of  you." 

"  But  I  am  very  fond  of  her  too,  Madame,"  returned 
Thurston  in  a  surprised  voice.  I  never  could  understand 
why  he  always  called  Cousin  Yvonne  Madame.  I  believe 
now  that  it  was  a  pet  name  he  had  invented  for  her, 
for  she  was  a  great  favourite  of  his.  "  I  think  Githa 
is  a  dear  little  thing,  but  Sydney  is  older,  and  after  all 
I  only  took  her  to  see  my  pigeons.  Githa  has  seen  them 
a  hundred  times  " ;  and  then  I  suddenly  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  eavesdropping,  and  ran  off  with  my  fingers 
in  my  ears ;  but  that  one  sentence,  "  I  think  Githa  is  a 
dear  little  thing,"  made  me  quite  happy. 

But  all  this  time  I  have  not  described  Cousin  Yvonne. 
Somehow  I  find  it  difficult  to  do  so,  for  it  seems  to  me 
that  my  childish  memories  are  so  mixed  up  with  later 

55 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

impressions  and  the  more  perfect  knowledge  of  growing 
womanhood  that  I  cannot  distinguish  them. 

At  that  time  she  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  grey-haired 
girl,  with  the  nicest  face  possible,  and  rather  sad  dark 
eyes,  that  looked  at  one  very  kindly — but  this  is  a  very 
vague  description.  I  know  now  that  she  was  a  beautiful 
woman,  and  that  her  dark  eyes  and  silvery  grey  hair  gave 
her  a  striking  appearance.  She  wore  her  hair  turned  back 
over  a  small  pad  in  the  style  of  Marie  Antoinette,  and 
coiled  very  simply  at  the  back.  She  was  generally  rather 
pale,  but  any  sudden  agitation  or  surprise  brought  a 
beautiful  colour  to  her  face,  and  at  such  times  she  looked 
extremely  handsome.  All  her  features  were  good,  but 
her  mouth  closed  a  little  too  firmly,  and  this  gave  a  some- 
what hard  look  to  the  face,  but  her  smile,  which  was  very 
pleasant,  at  once  destroyed  this  impression. 

One  thing  I  did  notice  even  in  those  days. 

"  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  once  said  to  her,  *'  what  nice 
hands  you  have,"  and  I  remember  that  she  looked  quite 
surprised  at  my  speech.  But  they  were  beautiful  hands 
for  all  that;  rather  large,  but  so  perfectly  shaped,  and 
the  cool  soft  touch  was  unlike  any  other  hand  I  ever  felt. 
But  Cousin  Yvonne  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  to  pride 
herself  on  any  physical  gifts.  I  believe  she  was  perfectly 
conscious  of  her  good  looks,  but  she  seemed  to  take  little 
or  no  pleasure  in  the  knowledge  that  people  admired 
her. 

Dearly  as  I  loved  Cousin  Yvonne  I  must  confess  I 
was  always  a  little  in  awe  of  her.  Reckless  and  daring 
as  I  was,  I  never  ventured  to  take  a  liberty  with  her,  or 
to  argue  or  demur  if  she  gave  me  an  order.  I  had  an 
innate  consciousness  that  any  act  of  disobedience  would 
have  had  unpleasant  consequences ;  and  yet  I  had  no 
reason  for  this  fear,  for  I  never  received  anything  but 

56 


COUSIN  YVONNE 

kindness  from  her.  I  was  somewhat  wayward  at  times, 
probably  from  the  effects  of  home  petting,  but  she  was 
always  patient  and  tolerant  of  my  childish  moods. 

I  have  mentioned  before  that  in  manner  she  some- 
what resembled  Miss  Redford,  and  it  is  true  that  they 
both  spoke  in  the  same  quick  decided  way,  as  though 
they  knew  their  own  mind  on  most  subjects,  and  never 
wasted  time  on  argument. 

I  have  heard  Aunt  Cosie  say  that  Claudia  Redford 
was  a  little  too  abrupt  in  manner  for  so  young  a  woman, 
and  probably  she  was  right ;  but  no  one  could  accuse 
Cousin  Yvonne  of  abruptness,  she  had  far  too  much 
dignity  for  that ;  she  was  proud,  reserved,  and  when  not 
interested  in  people  somewhat  cold  in  manner,  but  no 
one  who  knew  her  well  could  doubt  her  kind  and  gen- 
erous nature ;  she  was  a  royal  giver,  but  I  think  it  was 
always  easier  for  her  to  give  than  to  receive. 

I  always  spent  August  and  September  with  Cousin 
Yvonne,  while  father  went  abroad  or  to  a  shooting  lodge 
in  Scotland.  This  rule  never  varied.  On  the  31st  of 
July,  unless  that  date  fell  on  a  Sunday,  and  then  a  day 
earlier  was  fixed,  Mardie  took  me  to  Bayfield,  where 
Rebecca,  Cousin  Yvonne's  confidential  maid,  met  me  at 
the  station,  and  on  the  ist  of  October  I  travelled  back 
under  Becky's  guardianship  to  Paddington,  where  Mardie, 
trembling  with  joy  and  eagerness,  received  her  darling 
as  though  restored  from  the  dead.  Besides  this  annual 
visit  I  always  went  to  Prior's  Cot  for  a  fortnight  at 
Easter,  as  father  usually  went  to  Paris  for  ten  days  or 
so  to  visit  some  friends. 

Those  visits  were  always  delightful  to  me,  and  the 
only  cloud  on  my  brightness  was  the  parting  with  father. 
I  never  could  say  good-bye  to  him  without  tears,  and 
though  he  pretended  to  laugh  at  me  I  know  he  dreaded 

57 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

the  long  separation  as  much  as  I  did.  My  greatest 
pleasure  was  to  write  to  him  and  receive  his  dear  letters. 

Not  long  ago  father  showed  me  a  drawer  full  of  these 
childish  letters,  all  neatly  tied  up  and  docketed  with 
dates  affixed,  many  of  them  with  foreign  postmarks. 
I  opened  one  or  two  of  them  as  he  watched  me ;  we  both 
smiled  at  the  blotted  scrawl.  "  Your  own  loving  little 
Githa,"  or  "  With  Gipsy's  dear  love  to  darling  father — 
with  a  hundred  kisses." 

When  I  was  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge  I  always  wrote  to 
Cousin  Yvonne  once  a  week.  She  asked  me  to  do  so, 
and  I  always  took  great  pains  with  these  letters,  and  if 
I  made  an  unsightly  blot  or  smudge  Miss  Redford  made 
me  re-write  them.  I  think  this  wholesome  discipline 
rather  destroyed  spontaneity  and  pleasure  of  composition. 
My  anxiety  about  spelling,  too,  made  me  regard  these 
weekly  epistles  in  the  light  of  a  task ;  but  it  was  always 
a  delight  when  Tuesday  brought  me  Cousin  Yvonne's 
answer.  She  always  wrote  so  kindly,  and  told  me  what 
I  most  wanted  to  know — about  little  lame  Johnnie  at  the 
Lodge,  and  the  pigeons,  and  how  many  chicks  the 
speckled  hen  had,  and  how  Moyle  was  making  a  new 
rock-garden  in  the  wilderness,  and  all  sorts  of  little 
home  details  to  interest  me. 

I  used  to  make  father  read  these  letters,  and  he 
seemed  to  enjoy  them  as  much  as  I  did,  and  sometimes 
he  would  say  nice  things  about  them  to  please  me.  But 
then  that  was  always  father's  way ;  my  childish  pleasures 
and  griefs  were  so  much  to  him,  and  nothing  was  too 
trivial  to  rouse  his  interest  or  sympathy.  Dear  father, 
no  wonder  your  child  thought  you  perfect! 


S8 


VI 

SYDNEY  COMES  TO  PRIOR'S  COT 


It  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  see  her  without  being  deeply 
interested  by  the  ingenuity,  liveliness,  and  sweetness  of  her  dis- 
position.— Sir  Walter  Scott. 

I  am  going  to  take  the  world  into  my  confidence,  and  say, 

if  I  can,  what  I  think  and  feel  about  the  little  bit  of  experience 

which  I  call  my  life,   which  seems  to  me  such  a  strange  and 

often  so  bewildering  a  thing. — A.  C.  Benson. 

I  AM  tempted  to  linger  unduly  over  these  early  remi- 
niscences from  sheer  love  of  my  task.  As  I  recall  these 
memories  a  subtle  fragrance  seems  to  steal  to  my  senses 
— faint  odours  of  roses  and  violets,  and  other  sweet 
things ;  rosemary  there  is  in  plenty,  but  little  rue :  the 
bitter  flavours  of  life  had  not  then  reached  me.  I  am 
sure  that  no  one  had  a  happier  or  more  protected  child- 
hood. I  write  it  with  a  grateful  heart,  and  with  tears  in 
my  eyes. 

I  have  always  believed  that  no  amount  of  happiness 
in  after  life  can  compensate  entirely  for  an  unhappy 
childhood.  There  is  something  incongruous  and  pitiful 
in  the  very  idea.  Young  shoulders  shrinking  under  the 
weight  of  burdens  too  heavy  for  them,  timid  natures 
misunderstood  and  terrorised,  spending  joyless  days  in 
the  repressive  atmosphere  of  parental  tyranny — oh,  the 
waste,  the  pity  of  it ! 

I  think,  on  the  great  anniversaries  of  our  lives,  when 
we   are   recalling  the   past   with   all   its   blessings   and 

59 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

sorrows,  that  we  might  add  one  clause  to  our  thanks- 
givings for  the  priceless  gift  of  a  happy  childhood,  for 
the  sweet  memories  stored  up  in  our  treasure-house  of 
life.  It  would  do  us  no  harm,  and  would  hallow  the 
present  hour.  On  my  birthday,  and  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  Incarnation,  when  we  ponder  on  the  mysteries  of 
the  Holy  Childhood,  I  have  always  made  this  special 
thanksgiving,  and  I  trust,  as  I  get  old,  I  shall  never  omit 
this  custom. 

My  visits  to  Bayfield  are  certainly  among  my  pleas- 
antest  memories,  time  always  passed  so  quickly  at  Prior's 
Cot.  There  were  so  many  delightful  things  to  do :  to  help 
Cousin  Yvonne  feed  the  pigeons  and  chickens,  and  to 
collect  eggs.  Cousin  Yvonne  had  given  me  a  beautiful 
pair  of  fantail  pigeons  for  my  very  own — Pomp  and  Fan 
we  named  them.  Pomp  was  a  very  conceited,  pompous 
bird,  exceedingly  vain  of  his  snow-white  plumage,  and 
Fan  followed  his  example.  They  thought  themselves 
much  better  than  the  other  pigeons  ;  but  they  soon  became 
wonderfully  tame  with  me,  and  when  I  called  them,  they 
would  flutter  down  and  eat  out  of  my  hand  or  perch 
on  my  shoulder. 

Cousin  Yvonne  gave  me  a  yellow  chick  too ;  it  was 
such  a  dear  thing,  and  I  called  it  Downy.  But  on  my 
next  visit  it  had  grown  into  an  ungainly  long-legged  fowl 
and  I  lost  interest  in  it,  for  ugly  creatures  never  appealed 
to  me. 

Somehow  the  days  always  seemed  too  short  at  Prior's 
Cot.  In  the  morning  Cousin  Yvonne  gave  me  a  few  easy 
lessons,  and  insisted  on  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  practice 
on  the  piano.  I  did  not  dare  protest,  but  I  felt  inwardly 
mutinous.  "  I  thought  every  one  had  holidays,"  I 
mumbled  once,  for  Fiddle,  the  little  Skye-terrier,  was 
dancing  round  a  tortoise  on  the  lawn,  with  barks  of 

60 


SYDNEY  COMES  TO  PRIOR'S  COT 

puzzled  delight,  and  he  wanted  me  to  explain  matters 
to  him ;  and  even  the  adventures  of  Gaston  the  Savoyard 
did  not  interest  me. 

"  Two  months'  holiday  is  far  too  long  for  a  little  girl 
of  your  age,"  returned  Cousin  Yvonne  in  her  quiet, 
decided  way.  "  Come,  Githa,  you  have  only  an  hour's 
lessons,  and  there  is  all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  play  in. 
Be  a  good  child,  and  make  the  best  of  it."  And  this  view 
of  the  case  was  so  reasonable  that  I  left  off  frowning. 

Of  course  Cousin  Yvonne  was  right.  The  hour's 
regular  discipline  gave  an  added  zest  to  my  playtime.  I 
was  never  listless  or  dull  for  a  moment.  That  tiresome 
question  of  spoiled  childhood,  "  What  am  I  to  do  now  ?  " 
was  never  on  my  lips ;  indeed,  the  choice  of  employments 
was  almost  bewildering.  I  could  climb  the  old  medlar- 
tree  and  sit  there  with  a  story-book,  or  there  was  the 
swing  and  the  hammock.  Cousin  Yvonne  was  always  too 
busy  to  play  croquet  with  me  in  the  mornings ;  but  Fiddle 
was  ever  ready  for  a  race,  or  a  game  of  ball.  He  would 
play  hide-and-seek  with  me  in  the  wild  garden,  or  trot 
obediently  behind  me  when  I  went  to  the  Lodge  with  a 
message.  But  this  was  not  all  I  had  to  do,  for  I  had  a 
little  garden  of  my  own,  and  Cousin  Yvonne  gave  me  a 
delightful  set  of  gardening  tools.  There  was  the  dearest 
little  wheel-barrow  and  watering-pot.  She  taught  me 
how  to  sow  seeds  and  plant  bulbs,  and  she  liked  me  to 
know  the  names  of  the  flowers.  I  took  a  great  deal  of 
interest  in  my  garden.  My  roses  and  lilies  and  carnations 
were  quite  beautiful ;  and  when  I  was  away  Cousin 
Yvonne  looked  after  it  for  me. 

There  was  another  occupation  I  loved,  and  that  was 
going  with  Cousin  Yvonne  to  the  cottages.  Such  nice 
people  lived  at  Bayfield.  Very  few  were  really  poor,  but 
they  loved  a  neighbourly  chat,  and  the  sick  and  aged 

6i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

fully  appreciated  the  good  things  she  took  them.  The 
old  vicar,  Mr.  Dennison,  always  declared  that  Mrs. 
Darnell  pauperised  his  parishioners ;  but  he  would  say 
it  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  though  he  did  not  mean 
it,  for  he  thought  there  was  no  woman  like  Cousin 
Yvonne. 

I  liked  Mr.  Dennison,  but  I  did  not  find  him  specially 
interesting.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  and  very  precise 
and  courtly  in  his  manners,  and  he  was  rather  a  book- 
worm. He  was  a  good,  well-meaning  man,  but  not  cut 
out  for  a  parish  priest,  and  though  he  was  charitable, 
and  showed  much  kindness  to  his  people,  I  think  they 
scarcely  appreciated  him.  His  sermons  were  certainly 
a  little  tedious.  I  never  could  find  out  what  Cousin 
Yvonne  thought  of  them,  for  she  always  refused  to 
discuss  sermons ;  but  she  and  the  vicar  seemed  on  excel- 
lent terms.  His  health  was  not  good ;  and  when  he 
became  a  confirmed  invalid,  and  had  to  keep  a  curate. 
Cousin  Yvonne  always  went  to  the  Vicarage  every  day 
to  read  the  paper  to  him  and  cheer  him  up.  She  took 
him  flowers  and  little  dainties,  because  she  said  that  his 
housekeeper  did  not  understand  how  to  tempt  an  invalid's 
palate. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Dennison  was  deeply 
attached  to  Cousin  Yvonne ;  he  left  her  some  very  val- 
uable books  and  curios  when  he  died.  I  was  between 
fifteen  and  sixteen  then,  and  Sydney  wrote  to  me  a  full 
description  of  the  funeral. 

I  was  about  ten  years  old  when  Sydney  Herbert  came 
to  Prior's  Cot  to  live  with  Cousin  Yvonne.  Sydney  was 
not  related  to  her ;  she  was  the  only  child  of  an  old  school 
friend  who  had  made  an  unhappy  marriage.  Her  hus- 
band's death  had  left  her  and  her  child  wholly  unprovided 
for;  indeed.  Cousin  Yvonne  found  them,  I  believe,  in  a 
state  of  poverty  bordering  on  utter  destitution,  for  Mrs. 

62 


SYDNEY  COMES  TO  PRIOR'S  COT 

Herbert  was  too  ill  to  work.  From  what  Sydney  told  me, 
I  gathered  that  Cousin  Yvonne  had  been  a  veritable  angel 
to  them.  She  took  the  poor  widow  and  her  child  under 
her  own  roof,  and  provided  a  nurse  for  the  invalid,  and 
when  she  died  Cousin  Yvonne  promised  to  care  for 
Sydney.  "  I  will  treat  her  as  though  she  were  my  own 
child,  Margaret,"  the  girl  heard  her  say.  "  Poor  mother 
was  so  happy  when  Aunt  Yvonne  said  that "  finished 
Sydney  with  a  sigh ;  for  from  the  first  that  was  what  she 
called  Cousin  Yvonne. 

I  well  remember  the  day  when  I  first  saw  Sydney. 
I  had  just  arrived  at  Prior's  Cot  for  my  summer  visit, 
and  Cousin  Yvonne  came  out  as  usual  in  the  porch  to 
welcome  me.  There  was  a  little  flush  on  her  face,  and 
her  eyes  were  unusually  bright  as  she  kissed  me. 

"  Githa,"  she  said,  "  I  have  such  a  surprise  for  you, 
but  I  think  you  will  be  pleased  " ;  and  then  she  kept 
my  hand  and  we  went  into  the  drawing-room  together. 
I  remember  so  well  the  mingled  fragrance  of  tea  and 
roses  that  greeted  us  as  we  crossed  the  threshold,  and 
Sydney  came  smilingly  to  meet  us — a  tall  slip  of  a  girl 
in  a  black  frock,  with  a  plait  of  brown  hair  tied  up  with 
black  ribbon,  and  large  Irish  grey  eyes  which  were 
regarding  me  rather  seriously. 

"  Githa,  my  dear,"  observed  Cousin  Yvonne,  "  this  is 
Sydney  Herbert ;  her  mother  was  a  very  dear  friend 
of  mine.  I  call  her  my  adopted  daughter  because  she 
has  no  one  else  to  mother  her,  and  she  has  come  to  live 
with  me.    I  want  you  two  to  be  very  good  friends." 

Cousin  Yvonne  had  almost  taken  my  breath  away. 
I  was  literally  too  surprised  to  speak ;  but  I  shall  never 
forget  the  frank,  sweet  way  in  which  Sydney  kissed  me, 
and  the  earnest  sincerity  of  her  voice  as  she  exclaimed, 
"  Oh  yes,  I  hope  so,  Aunt  Yvonne." 

63 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

And  now,  as  I  wish  to  be  truthful  in  these  pages,  I 
have  a  little  confession  to  make.  In  spite  of  my  pleasure 
at  having  a  companion  so  near  my  own  age  who  could 
share  my  pursuits,  I  am  afraid  my  feelings  were  a  little 
mixed,  and  not  wholly  devoid  of  jealousy,  and  that  for 
the  first  few  days  I  was  not  quite  sure  that  I  was  glad 
that  Sydney  was  to  live  at  Prior's  Cot. 

I  am  ashamed  to  own  this,  but  I  must  plead  in  extenu- 
ation that  all  my  short  life  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
regard  myself  as  the  centre  of  interest  to  the  dear  people 
who  surrounded  me.  I  knew  that,  however  much  they 
tried  to  hide  it,  all  my  wants  and  wishes  were  of  import- 
ance to  them — in  short,  I  was  a  spoiled  and  petted  child. 

I  was  therefore  disposed  to  regard  Sydney  in  the 
light  of  an  interloper,  and  I  was  afraid  that,  during  my 
long  absences  from  Prior's  Cot,  Sydney  would  so  endear 
herself  to  Cousin  Yvonne  that  I  might  by  and  by  be 
deposed  from  my  present  position  as  favourite. 

I  remember  one  evening  when  I  was  not  well,  and 
therefore  inclined  to  be  captious  and  fretful  and  full  of 
fancies,  that  I  put  my  arms  round  Cousin  Yvonne  when 
she  came  to  tuck  me  up  and  see  that  I  was  comfortable 
— her  usual  custom — and  said  plaintively : 

"  Cousin  Yvonne,  I  do  hope  you  will  always  be  fond 
of  me — I  mean,"  as  she  seemed  surprised  at  this,  "  that 
you  will  always  love  me  better  than  Sydney." 

"  Why  Githa,"  she  returned,  smiling,  as  she  sat  down 
beside  me,  "  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  jealous  of 
poor  Sydney!  That  is  not  like  you,  my  dear.  Surely 
there  is  room  in  my  heart  for  both  of  you." 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  you  to  love  me  best,"  I  persisted, 
and  I  wished  it  so  much  that  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes, 
but  she  only  stroked  my  hair  with  a  firm  caressing 
gesture  and  seemed  thoughtful. 

64 


SYDNEY  COMES  TO  PRIOR'S  COT 

"You  are  not  vexed  with  me?"  I  whispered  pres- 
ently, for  her  silence  alarmed  me.  Then  she  looked  at 
me  very  tenderly, 

"  Not  vexed,  darling,  only  sorry  that  my  little  Githa 
should  not  be  more  generous.  Surely  you  do  not  forget 
that  poor  Sydney  has  no  mother  to  love  her  now,  and 
that  we  must  all  try  to  make  her  happy  ?  " 

I  felt  rather  ashamed  when  Cousin  Yvonne  said  this, 
and  the  tears  began  to  flow  freely. 

"  I  am  fond  of  Sydney,"  I  sobbed.  "  She  is  very, 
very  nice,  and  I  want  her  dreadfully  to  be  happy ;  but," 
choking  a  little,  "  I  can't  help  it.  Cousin  Yvonne,  I  do 
want  you  to  love  me  best." 

I  do  not  know  what  made  Cousin  Yvonne  so  for- 
bearing and  gentle  with  me  that  night,  but  as  I  said  this, 
she  took  me  in  her  arms  so  kindly  and  kissed  me  more 
than  once. 

"  Darling,  put  this  nonsense  out  of  your  head.  I 
love  you  very  dearly,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  I  shall 
change.  No  one  can  take  my  little  Githa's  place  as  long 
as  she  is  good  and  lovable,  but  I  must  love  poor  Sydney 
too,  for  the  sake  of  her  dear  dead  mother."  And  then 
she  bade  me  good-night  and  went  away ;  but  I  felt 
strangely  comforted,  for,  although  she  had  not  actually 
said  so  in  words,  her  voice  and  manner  assured  me  that 
she  cared  for  me  most. 

Cousin  Yvonne  never  referred  to  this  conversation, 
and  after  a  time  my  jealousy  died  a  natural  death. 

There  was  no  resisting  Sydney.  She  was  simply  the 
most  delightful  companion  and  friend  that  a  girl  could 
have.  She  had  a  charming  temperament,  for  she  was 
sweet-tempered  and  unselfish,  and  so  perfectly  frank 
that  no  one  could  help  loving  her ;  and  though  she  could 
be  thoughtful  and  even  serious  at  times,  she  had  plenty 
5  65 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

of  Irish  fun  and  drollery  about  her;  and  to  crown  her 
other  merits,  she  was  very  fond  of  Princess  Githa,  though 
why  both  she  and  Thurston  took  to  calling  me  "the  little 
Princess  "  is  more  than  I  can  say.  I  asked  Sydney  the 
reason  one  day,  but  she  declared  that  she  did  not  know. 

"  It  just  came  into  my  head,"  she  observed,  "  and 
somehow  the  name  suited  you.  You  have  such  a  funny 
little  grand  manner  sometimes,  and  then  you  toss  your 
head  just  as  though  you  were  a  real  princess.  Now  don't 
frown,  Githa,  for  I  know  you  are  not  really  stuck  up  and 
proud  one  bit.  You  are  just  a  jewel,  and  the  darlint 
of  me  heart,"  for  Sydney  knew  how  to  talk  blarney,  and 
it  was  pretty  to  hear  her  brogue. 

Of  course  Thurston  liked  her  best,  and  small  blame  to 
him,  but  I  soon  forgave  his  fickleness,  and  we  were  all 
three  good  friends. 

Sydney  was  absolutely  devoted  to  Cousin  Yvonne. 
She  used  to  talk  about  her  sometimes  when  we  went  up 
to  our  room.  I  remember  one  Sunday  evening  when  she 
came  and  sat  on  my  bed  a  long  time ;  it  was  impossible 
for  either  of  us  to  go  to  sleep,  for  Cousin  Yvonne  was 
playing  on  the  organ  in  the  hall  below,  and  my  room 
was  flooded  with  moonlight  and  sound. 

Cousin  Yvonne  always  played  on  the  organ  on  Sunday 
evening.  She  called  it  her  Sabbath  rest.  She  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  music,  and  she  played  Chopin  and 
Beethoven  with  much  feeling  and  expression.  That  even- 
ing she  had  been  playing  selections  from  Handel's  ora- 
torios. Sydney  and  I  had  been  listening  enraptured  to 
that  lovely  melody,  "  He  shall  feed  His  flock  like  a 
Shepherd  " ;  and  when  she  had  finished  this  she  had  taken 
her  hands  oflf  the  keys  for  a  moment  and  bade  us  very 
softly  leave  her  and  go  to  bed. 


66 


SYDNEY  COMES  TO  PRIOR'S  COT 

"  It  is  getting  late ;  run  away,  children,"  and  then 
Sydney  kissed  her,  and  I  followed  her  example. 

I  remember  I  looked  back  for  a  moment  before  I 
ascended  the  stairs.  The  moonlight  poured  in  at  the 
windows  and  open  door,  and  the  organ  candles  lit  up 
Cousin  Yvonne's  figure  as  she  sat  there  in  her  white 
dress.  She  often  wore  white,  and,  strange  to  say,  it 
suited  her  in  spite  of  her  grey  hair.  I  could  see  her 
beautiful  face  so  plainly  as  she  sat  there,  her  head  droop- 
ing a  little  over  the  keys.  Then  she  took  out  the  stops 
again,  and  that  glorious  refrain,  "  Let  the  bright  Sera- 
phim," pealed  through  the  house. 

"Did  not  Aunt  Yvonne  look  sweet  this  evening?" 
observed  Sydney  admiringly,  as  she  curled  herself  up 
cosily  by  my  pillow.  "  I  thought  she  looked  like  an  angel 
in  her  white  dress.  Did  you  notice  how  silvery  her  hair 
looked  in  the  moonlight?  Oh,  I  do  think  she  is  just  the 
loveliest  thing  in  the  world." 

**  I  think  so  too,"  I  returned  with  conviction,  "  next 
to  father,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  but  he  is  a  man,"  returned  Sydney  quickly. 
"  Men  are  never  lovely,  are  they?  They  are  only  hand- 
some and  nice.  Don't  begin  about  your  father  to-night, 
Githa,  or  you  will  never  stop.  I  was  wanting  to  say 
something.  Is  it  not  sad  that,  with  all  her  goodness  and 
kindness,  dear  Aunt  Yvonne  should  not  be  happy  ?  " 

I  was  very  much  startled  at  this  extraordinary  state- 
ment on  Sydney's  part.  I  felt  as  though  a  douche  of 
cold  water  were  suddenly  turned  on  me. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sydney?  Cousin  Yvonne  is 
perfectly  happy,"  but  Sydney  shook  her  head. 

"  If  she  were  happy,  why  should  she  look  so  sad  ? 
Sometimes  when  she  is  playing,  or  at  church — oh,  surely 
you  have  noticed  her  at  church — but  no,  you  sit  next 

67 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

her.  More  than  once  when  we  were  alone,  and  it  was 
getting  dark,  I  have  heard  her  sigh  so  heavily ;  and  once 
when  Wright  was  bringing  in  the  lamp  she  started  up 
quite  suddenly  and  left  the  room,  and,  Githa,  I  feel  sure 
she  had  been  crying." 

"Crying — oh.  impossible!"  I  exclaimed,  for  the  idea 
of  Cousin  Yvonne  being  unhappy  and  shedding  tears  like 
any  ordinary  mortal  seemed  quite  a  preposterous  idea. 

"  I  don't  see  the  impossibility,"  returned  Sydney 
mildly.  "  Aunt  Yvonne  may  have  troubles  that  she  would 
not  tell  us.  I  really  am  afraid  it  is  true,  Githa,  for  dear 
mother  once  said  that  she  was  never  so  sorry  for  any 
one  in  her  life  as  she  was  for  Aunt  Yvonne.  Mother 
would  never  have  said  that  if  Aunt  Yvonne  had  no 
trouble." 

I  was  not  convinced,  and  I  remember  I  argued  the 
matter  very  obstinately  with  Sydney,  for  I  was  unwilling 
to  believe  her,  but  she  said  very  quietly  that  I  should  soon 
find  out  that  she  was  right — "  Not  that  it  is  any  business 
of  ours,"  she  continued  seriously ;  "  only  when  people 
are  not  quite  happy  I  think  we  ought  to  love  them  better, 
and  do  all  in  our  power  to  comfort  them."  And  then, 
as  the  music  ceased,  she  said  she  must  go  to  her  own 
room,  as  Aunt  Yvonne  would  not  like  our  talking  so 
late. 


(96 


VII 

IT  IS  ALWAYS  DARNELL  AND  CO. 


The  child  leans  on  its  parent's  breast, 
Leaves  there  its  cares,  and  is  at  rest; 
The  bird  sits  singing  by  its  nest, 

And  tells  aloud 
His  trust  in  God,  and  so  is  blest 

'Neath  every  cloud. 

Isaac   Williams. 

There  was  one  thing  which  often  puzzled  me,  for  chil- 
dren even  of  eight  and  nine  think  more  deeply  than 
grown-up  people  imagine,  although  they  are  often  too 
shy  to  give  expression  to  their  thoughts.  It  was  far 
easier  to  talk  things  over  with  a  companion  of  one's  own 
age.  I  had  often  wondered  why  Cousin  Yvonne  had 
never  come  to  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  and  when  I  remarked 
this  to  Sydney  she  seemed  rather  surprised  too. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Aunt  Yvonne  the  reason?  "  she 
returned,  for  Sydney  was  always  very  practical  and 
straightforward ;  she  never  beat  about  the  bush  on  any 
pretence  whatever. 

"I  have  asked  her,"  in  a  perplexed  voice;  "but  she 
only  said  she  so  seldom  came  to  town,  and  then  only  on 
business.  But  I  do  think,  Sydney,  that  she  might  come 
and  stay  with  us  sometimes." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  your  father  to  invite  her  ?  "  was 
Sydney's  reply,  and  I  thought  this  piece  of  advice  so 
sensible  that  I  was  determined  to  act  on  it  on  the  first 
opportunity.     I  was  going  home  the  next  day.  but  just 

69 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

then  father  was  very  much  taken  up  with  some  import- 
ant business,  and  I  scarcely  saw  him  from  morning  to 
night;  but  one  afternoon,  when  I  was  spending  a  few 
hours  at  Fairlawn,  it  came  into  my  head  to  talk  to  Aunt 
Cosie. 

She  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised  at  my  question ;  only 
when  I  suggested  that  Cousin  Yvonne  should  be  invited 
to  spend  a  few  days  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  she  said  very 
quietly : 

"  I  should  not  ask  your  father  to  do  that,  Githa ;  he 
never  likes  to  refuse  you  anything,  and  it  would  place 
him  in  an  awkward  position." 

"  But  why — I  don't  understand,  Aunt  Cosie." 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  daresay  not,"  and  then  Aunt  Cosie 
hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  The  fact  is,"  she  continued 
slowly,  as  though  she  found  it  difficult  to  explain  things 
to  my  childish  comprehension,  "  many  years  ago  there 
was  some  misunderstanding  and  difficulty  connected 
with  your  Cousin  Yvonne's  husband,  and  which  makes 
things  a  little  awkward  for  both  of  them." 

"  But  father  likes  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  returned 
eagerly ;  "  he  is  quite  pleased  for  me  to  go  and  stay  with 
her.  He  said  once  that  he  had  an  immense  respect  for 
her." 

"  Then  I  am  quite  sure  he  meant  what  he  said," 
replied  Aunt  Cosie.  "  Now  you  are  a  sensible  child, 
Githa — although  that  father  of  yours  and  Mrs.  Marland 
do  their  best  to  spoil  you — and  I  want  you  to  listen  to 
me  a  moment.  What  I  have  told  you  is  in  confidence, 
because  you  have  a  wise  little  head  as  well  as  a  loving 
heart,  and  I  think  you  are  to  be  trusted.  Now,  I  am 
not  sure  that  father  will  be  pleased  at  my  saying  what 
I  have,  so  I  don't  mean  to  tell  him,"  and  here  Aunt  Cosie 
gave  a  pleasant  little  laugh. 

70 


IT  IS  ALWAYS  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

"  Oh,  then  I  had  better  say  nothing  either,"  I  returned 
rather  regretfully,  and  Aunt  Cosie  gave  a  little  nod,  and 
presently  we  began  talking  of  other  things, 

I  was  rather  proud  that  Aunt  Cosie  had  reposed 
confidence  in  me;  there  was  something  flattering  in  the 
idea  that  she  had  treated  me  like  a  grown-up  person.  I 
was  glad  that  she  thought  me  so  sensible  for  my  age, 
and  I  determined  to  try  my  hardest  to  live  up  to  this 
good  opinion. 

"  Of  course,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  walked  home  with 
Mardie,  "  if  father  had  had  a  misunderstanding  or  quarrel 
with  Cousin  Yvonne's  husband,  it  would  certainly  make 
things  a  little  awkward  for  both  of  them,"  and  then  I 
wisely  determined  to  put  the  whole  thing  out  of  my 
head  until  I  was  older. 

But  I  must  hurry  on,  for  I  cannot  expect  my  kind 
and  tolerant  readers  to  be  as  interested  as  I  am  in  these 
childish  recollections.  I  intend  to  skim  over  the  next 
few  years  in  an  airy  and  birdlike  manner,  taking  long 
flights,  then  swooping  down  for  a  moment  to  pick  up  a 
crumb,  a  worm,  or  a  shred  of  wool,  as  birds  do  for  the 
lining  of  their  nests. 

When  I  was  between  twelve  and  thirteen  I  had  a 
feverish  attack  which  weakened  me  a  good  deal ;  the 
doctor  said  I  had  been  growing  too  fast  and  was  very 
much  run  down.  I  certainly  felt  very  ill,  and  for  three 
or  four  weeks  I  could  not  leave  my  bed ;  but  Mardie  and 
Miss  Redford  nursed  me  devotedly. 

It  was  then  that  I  found  out  Miss  Redford's  value; 
she  volunteered  of  her  own  accord  to  remain  in  the 
house,  and  as  Mardie  insisted  on  sleeping  in  my  room, 
she  took  a  considerable  share  of  the  day  nursing,  and 
she  was  always  so  patient  and  cheery,  so  unmindful  of 
fatigue  and  confinement,  so  forgetful  of  her  own  comfort 

71 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  convenience,  that  I  grew  to  depend  on  her  more  and 
more.  She  was  such  a  wholesome  bracing  person  that  it 
made  me  ashamed  of  being  fretful  and  impatient,  and 
when  my  dear  Miss  Redford  was  in  the  room,  I  always 
tried  hard  to  bear  my  pain  or  weariness  as  well  as  I 
could.  It  used  to  help  me  so  to  hear  her  say,  "  You  have 
been  a  dear  good  child  to-day,  Githa " ;  or  "  That's  a 
brave  little  woman,"  as  I  submitted  to  some  disagreeable 
but  necessary  injunction.  I  think  I  valued  praise  from 
her  more  than  from  any  one,  because  she  commended 
so  rarely. 

Mardie's  treatment  was  hardly  so  judicious.  She  was 
so  sorry  for  her  darling,  she  sympathised  so  excessively 
with  me,  that  I  am  sure  my  aches  and  pains  were  as  real 
to  her  as  her  own.  She  petted  and  pitied  me  from 
morning  to  night,  and  until  I  began  to  get  better  she 
scarcely  closed  her  eyes  until  morning,  so  great  was  her 
watchfulness  and  anxiety.  My  dear  old  self-sacrificing 
Mardie ! 

Father  came  up  to  me  as  often  as  he  could,  and  would 
sit  by  my  bed  silently  holding  my  hand  if  he  were  not 
allowed  to  talk  to  me.  I  saw  Miss  Redford  look  at  him 
once  or  twice  so  intently,  as  though  he  interested  her. 
It  worried  father  so  much  to  see  me  ill  that  I  used  to 
pretend  that  I  was  ever  so  much  better ;  but  I  could 
never  deceive  him ;  he  would  shake  his  head,  and  his 
eyes  would  grow  quite  sad.  "  I  wish  I  could  bear  for 
you,  Gipsy,"  he  would  say,  "  but  we  must  both  be  patient, 
my  girlie " ;  and  somehow  I  understood  then  how  he 
hated  to  see  me  lying  there ;  but  I  always  assured  him 
when  I  bade  him  good-night  that  I  should  soon  be  well 
again. 

I  was  protesting  to  this  effect  a  little  too  eagerly  one 
evening,  when  I  saw  a  look  of  great  fear  come  into  his 

72 


IT  IS  ALWAYS  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

eyes,  and  then  I  clutched  him  and  knew  no  more.  I 
heard  afterwards  that  I  had  fainted,  and  that  father  had 
been  very  much  frightened,  but  Miss  Redford  had  quietly 
begged  him  to  lay  me  down  on  the  pillow  and  had  at  once 
used  the  proper  remedies,  and  I  soon  regained  conscious- 
ness. But  she  would  not  allow  me  to  say  a  \Tord.  "  You 
must  lie  still  and  drink  this,  Githa,"  she  said  in  her  quick, 
kind  way,  "  and  you  must  try  to  go  to  sleep."  And  then 
father  gave  her  a  sign  which  she  seemed  to  understand, 
for  she  went  out  of  the  room  and  did  not  return  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  father  sat  down  again  beside  me  and  put 
his  arm  round  me,  and  I  nestled  comfortably  against  his 
shoulder  and  soon  fell  into  a  doze.  I  know  when  I  woke 
up  I  was  surprised  to  see  Dr.  Mordaunt  standing  at  the 
foot  of  my  bed  with  Mardie  behind  him.  "  I  did  not 
know  it  was  morning,"  I  said  feebly,  for  I  was  a  little 
dazed  still. 

"  Bless  your  dear  heart,  my  lamb,  it  is  not  ten  yet," 
observed  Mardie ;  but  father  checked  her,  and  then  Dr. 
Mordaunt  put  his  fingers  on  my  wrist  and  asked  in  his 
kind  way  if  I  felt  more  comfortable. 

"  Oh,  I  am  always  comfortable  when  I  have  father's 
shoulder  for  a  pillow,"  I  returned  sleepily;  and  then 
Dr.  Mordaunt  laughed.  But  I  do  not  remember  any 
more,  except  that  I  had  an  impression  that  Mardie  never 
went  to  bed  at  all  that  night,  and  that  whenever  T  woke 
father  was  still  beside  me. 

I  had  a  sort  of  relapse  after  this,  and  Dr.  Mordaunt 
told  father  that  I  must  be  kept  very  quiet.  Aunt  Cosie, 
who  came  to  see  me  every  day,  only  stayed  a  few  minutes 
in  my  room.  I  used  to  beg  her  in  a  weak  voice  to  remain, 
because  I  loved  to  see  her  dear  old  face  near  me,  but  she 
only  patted  me  and  said  we  must  obey  the  doctor's  orders, 
and  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  argue  the  point. 

73 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

I  used  to  think  a  great  deal  of  Cousin  Yvonne  as  I 
lay  there ;  it  often  came  into  my  head  how  I  should  love 
to  hear  her  play  on  her  organ  again,  "  Let  the  bright 
Seraphim,"  or  "  Angels  ever  bright  and  fair."  One 
evening  vi^hen  I  thought  I  was  alone  I  muttered  half 
aloud,  "  I  think  Cousin  Yvonne  would  make  a  lovely 
angel." 

"  What  is  that  you  say,  Gipsy  ?  "  asked  father  quickly, 
and  I  repeated  my  speech ;  "  but  I  did  not  mean  any  one 
to  hear  me,"  I  finished  shyly,  but  I  do  not  remember 
what  he  said  in  reply. 

It  was  quite  certain  that  Cousin  Yvonne  did  not 
forget  me,  for  nearly  every  day  I  had  the  loveliest  mes- 
sages from  her.  Flowers  came  constantly;  not  only 
cactus,  dahlias,  and  chrysanthemums  from  my  special 
garden,  and  late-growing  roses  from  the  verandah,  but 
the  choicest  and  most  delicate  blooms  from  the  green- 
house, which  must  have  been  ruthlessly  despoiled  for  my 
benefit. 

Then  every  few  days  there  was  the  daintiest  fruit- 
basket  with  bunches  of  purple  and  white  grapes,  and 
great  luscious  pears  and  yellow  bananas.  They  were  so 
prettily  arranged  that  I  used  to  lie  and  feast  my  eyes  on 
them;  and  there  were  such  dear  little  notes  tucked  in 
between  the  red  leaves.  Oh  no,  certainly  Cousin  Yvonne 
did  not  forget  me. 

As  soon  as  Dr.  Mordaunt  gave  permission  I  was 
lifted  from  my  bed  to  the  couch  in  the  schoolroom,  and 
then  came  a  very  eventful  day  when  father  carried  me 
downstairs  into  the  library,  and  he  and  Miss  Redford 
pillowed  me  upon  the  great  Chesterfield  couch.  After 
this  I  spent  some  hours  there  daily,  and  father  used  to 
come  home  early  to  have  tea  with  me.  If  he  were  delayed 
Hallett  carried  me  down,  and  then  father  found  me  there 

74 


IT  IS  ALWAYS  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

when  he  opened  the  door.  What  happy  afternoons  those 
were  in  spite  of  my  weakness !  Miss  Redford  would 
make  tea  for  us,  and  then  she  would  go  home  to  her  flat, 
for,  as  Mardie  always  helped  me  to  bed  and  slept  in  my 
room,  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  until  morning. 

I  loved  being  alone  with  father,  and  he  was  so  dear 
and  good ;  he  read  and  talked  to  me,  and  when  I  grew 
stronger  he  would  play  games  with  me,  and  the  time 
always  passed  so  quickly  that  it  was  quite  a  shock  when 
Mardie  came  in  to  tell  us  that  it  was  seven  o'clock,  and 
that  I  must  be  carried  upstairs  again.  Father  used  to 
pretend  that  I  was  getting  so  heavy  that  he  could  hardly 
bear  my  weight.  He  would  pause  on  the  landing,  and 
puff  and  groan,  and  he  was  quite  delighted  when  Mardie, 
who  was  following  us  with  the  pillows,  begged  him  to 
summon  Hallett.  I  saw  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  for  he 
did  so  love  a  joke.  "  No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Marland," 
he  returned  in  a  resigned  and  exhausted  voice.  *'St.  Paul 
tells  us  that  every  man  must  bear  his  own  burden,  and 
there  is  only  one  more  flight  of  stairs.  Come  along, 
Gipsy — Excelsior,"  and  then  he  toiled  on  heavily,  while 
I  buried  my  face  in  his  coat  to  prevent  myself  laughing 
outright.  I  knew  I  was  only  a  featherweight  to  him,  and 
that  he  could  have  carried  me  a  mile  or  two  without 
fatigue,  but  I  don't  think  Mardie  discovered  the  joke. 

When  Miss  Redford  went  back  to  the  flat  father 
made  her  such  a  nice  little  speech.  "  I  shall  always  be 
grateful  to  you  for  your  kind  care  of  Githa,"  he  said, 
and  he  gave  her  such  a  beautiful  present — a  lovely  little 
watch  and  chain. 

Father  was  always  generous,  and  when  people  pleased 
him  he  was  never  comfortable  in  his  mind  until  he  had 
made  some  return.  I  had  mentioned  to  him  casually 
that  Miss  Redford's  watch  was  so  old,  that  it  was  quite 

75 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

worn  out  and  useless ;  it  had  belonged  to  her  mother. 
"  She  means  to  get  quite  a  cheap  one  for  daily  use,"  I 
continued  volubly;  but  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that 
father  would  take  any  special  notice  of  my  remark. 

I  could  see  Miss  Redford  was  intensely  surprised, 
but  she  was  pleased  too.  She  coloured  up,  and  seemed 
so  embarrassed  that  father  had  to  put  her  at  her  ease 
in  his  kind  way. 

"  You  will  not  refuse  our  little  gift,  I  hope.  Miss 
Redford.  It  is  from  Githa  as  well  as  from  me.  Remem- 
ber we  have  to  thank  you  not  only  for  these  weeks  of 
nursing,  but  for  years  of  thoughtful  training  and  patient 
labour,"  and  when  he  said  this  she  took  the  little  case 
with  a  shy  word  of  thanks.  It  was  always  difficult  for 
her  to  express  her  feelings,  but  as  she  kissed  me  I  am 
sure  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Your  father  says  I  am  to  thank  you  too,  Githa,  for 
this  magnificent  present." 

I  think  I  should  have  told  her  the  next  moment  that 
I  was  quite  as  much  surprised  as  she  was,  only  father 
interposed. 

"  It  is  always  Darnell  and  Co.,"  he  said  hastily,  "isn't 
it,  Gip  ?  "  and  after  that  he  often  called  me  "  Co."  in  his 
playful  way. 

It  was  Darnell  and  Co.  who  presented  that  beautiful 
black  silk  to  Mardie,  which  was  laid  by  in  tissue  paper 
and  lavender  for  so  many  years  that  I  threatened  Mardie 
with  divers  pains  and  penalties  unless  she  had  it  made 
up  at  once. 

"  But  I  was  keeping  it  for  your  wedding,  my  pretty," 
returned  Mardie  regretfully.  "  Why,  it  is  far  too  grand 
for  Sunday  wear — it  quite  stands  alone  with  richness 
and  stiffness." 

"  If  I  am  ever  married,"  was  my  reply,  "  which  is  not 
76 


IT  IS  ALWAYS  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

at  all  likely,  father  shall  give  you  a  black  satin,"  for  I 
knew  how  Mardie  had  coveted  such  a  possession ;  but 
even  with  this  inducement  I  had  some  difficulty  in  getting 
my  way  with  the  dear  old  thing. 

Dr.  Mordaunt  had  told  father  that  I  had  outgrown 
my  strength,  and  that  I  had  better  go  to  the  seaside  for 
a  few  weeks ;  lesson-books  were  to  be  discarded  for  at 
least  two  months.  I  was  just  to  eat  and  drink  and  sleep 
and  get  strong,  and  as  Dr.  Mordaunt's  injunctions  had 
the  authority  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  no  one  ven- 
tured to  set  them  aside.  Certainly  I  had  no  wish  to  do 
so,  for  when  one  is  tired  to  death  from  morning  to  night, 
and  feels  inclined  to  cry  at  the  least  exertion,  lessons 
seem  the  most  tiresome  things  in  the  world.  Scarcely 
a  day  had  elapsed  since  Dr.  Mordaunt  had  delivered 
his  verdict,  when  I  received  a  long  letter  from  Cousin 
Yvonne  proposing  the  most  delightful  scheme.  She  told 
me  that  she  and  Sydney  were  going  to  spend  a  couple  of 
months  at  St.  Leonards.  A  friend  of  hers  had  lent  her 
her  house  and  servants  while  she  went  abroad.  "  She 
wanted  me  to  stay  for  three  months,"  wrote  Cousin 
Yvonne,  "  but  I  told  her  I  must  be  back  for  Christmas. 
Mrs.  Chambers's  house  is  delightfully  comfortable.  It 
is  not  facing  the  sea,  though  there  is  a  side  view  from 
some  of  the  windows.  It  has  a  sunny  aspect,  and  is  just 
the  house  for  an  invalid,  as  it  is  thoroughly  well  warmed. 
You  shall  have  a  room  quite  close  to  mine,  and  Sydney 
will  sleep  in  a  small  one  leading  out  of  it ;  and  as  Rebecca 
will  of  course  accompany  us,  you  will  have  all  the  atten- 
tion you  require."  It  was  a  very  kind  letter — every  one 
said  so — and  of  course  there  could  be  only  one  answer. 
The  family  council,  consisting  of  father,  Aunt  Cosie,  and 
Mardie,  decided  unanimously  that  it  was  far  too  advan- 
tageous an  offer  to  refuse.     Mrs.  Chambers  was  a  rich 

•J7 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

woman,  and  her  house  was  sure  to  be  replete  with  com- 
fort. There  would  be  no  cold  draughty  passages ;  the 
rooms  would  be  warm  and  snug ;  and  then  there  was  the 
use  of  the  carriage,  and  Rebecca,  too,  was  an  excellent 
nurse. 

Father  told  me  to  write  a  grateful  letter  of  acceptance, 
and  was  surprised  when  I  hesitated. 

"  It  is  only  the  thought  of  leaving  you,"  I  whispered ; 
"  but  for  that  I  should  love  to  go  to  the  seaside  with 
Cousin  Yvonne  and  Sydney ;  but  I  do  hate  to  leave  you, 
darling."    But  he  would  not  listen  to  this  for  a  moment. 

"  I  shall  be  very  much  engaged  for  the  next  fort- 
night, my  dear,"  he  said  seriously.  "  There  will  be  no 
more  library  teas  for  some  time.  When  I  have  got 
through  the  press  of  business  I  rather  think  of  running 
down  to  Boscombe  for  a  week  or  so.  I  promised  Colonel 
Dacre  that  I  would  look  him  up,  and  I  could  not  take 
you  with  me,  Gip  " ;  and  as  father  had  evidently  made 
his  plans,  and  the  prospect  of  a  few  weeks  at  St.  Leonards 
was  decidedly  attractive,  and  I  was  longing  to  see  Cousin 
Yvonne  and  Sydney,  I  consented  to  the  separation  with 
a  tolerable  grace,  though  some  inexplicable  feeling  made 
me  say  suddenly : 

"  If  I  were  to  be  ill  again,  you  would  come  to  me, 
would  you  not,  father,  and  Mardie  too  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  likely  that  we  should  either  of 
us  stay  away  under  those  circumstances,  Githa,  my 
dear  " ;  but  father  spoke  a  little  drily  as  though  he  thought 
I  need  not  have  asked  such  a  question. 


78 


VIII 

BEGGARS  ALL" 


Once  well  matched  and  mated,  conditions  of  life  are  neither 
here  nor  there,  if  you  are  born  into  them  and  they  are  short  of 
absolute  penury.  A  little  house  and  little  in  it-;  a  great  house 
full  of  fine  things ;  in  each  a  man  and  woman,  "  born  for  each 
other,"  mates,  comrades,  lovers ;  and  two  pair  of  human  beings 
equally  happy. — F.  Greenwood. 

The  weeks  at  St.  Leonards  passed  quickly  and  happily 
away,  but  I  do  not  intend  to  dwell  on  them  now.  One 
thing  made  a  deep  impression  on  me  and  remained  long 
in  my  memory,  and  that  was  the  pained  look  in  Cousin 
Yvonne's  eyes  when  she  first  caught  sight  of  me  at  the 
station.  I  knew  by  the  way  she  took  hold  of  me,  and  the 
quiet  intensity  of  her  kiss,  that  the  change  in  my  appear- 
ance had  given  her  a  shock — indeed,  she  owned  this  to 
me  afterwards. 

"  If  I  had  known  how  ill  you  had  been  I  should 
certainly  have  come  to  see  you,  Githa ;  but  I  never  real- 
ised it  for  a  moment." 

"  But  Aunt  Cosie  and  Miss  Redford  wrote  to  you," 
I  returned  quickly,  "  for  they  both  told  me  so." 

"  Yes,   but    they    said    as    little    as    possible.       Mrs. 

Bevan's  letters  were  very  kind,  but "     Here  Cousin 

Yvonne  checked  herself,  and  her  lips  closed  as  though 
they  were  suddenly  locked  and  sealed. 

I  was  always  sorry  when  Cousin  Yvonne's  beautiful 
mouth  had  this  expression ;  it  made  her  look  hard  and 
old,  and  gave  one  the  impression  that  nothing  would 

79 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

induce  her  to  speak  if  she  wished  to  remain  silent.    At 
such  moments  I  would  not  have  ventured  to  say  a  word. 

"  My  poor  little  white-faced  child,"  she  murmured 
tenderly  as  she  tucked  me  up  in  bed  that  first  night,  "  but 
we  will  bring-  the  roses  back  before  long."  But  I  heard 
her  sigh  as  she  left  the  room. 

I  was  always  happy  with  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  Sydney 
was  such  SL  dear  companion,  and  the  weeks  passed  almost 
too  rapidly.  I  was  young  and  my  constitution  was  good, 
and  I  had  plenty  of  recuperative  force,  so  I  soon  regained 
strength  and  spirits.  When  I  returned  six  weeks  later 
to  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  father  held  me  out  at  arm's  length 
and  looked  at  me  with  a  pleased  and  satisfied  expression. 
"  Good  child,"  he  said  briefly,  "  you  are  a  credit  to  your 
nurses — and  you  have  grown  too  " ;  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  evening  he  could  hardly  bear  me  out  of  his  sight,  he 
was  so  glad  to  get  his  Gipsy  back  again! 

I  saw  very  little  of  Miss  Redford  just  then,  as  lessons 
were  not  to  be  resumed  until  after  Christmas,  but  she 
came  in  sometimes  to  see  me,  and  I  thought  then  that  she 
seemed  a  little  preoccupied  and  hardly  as  cheerful  as 
usual;  but  when  I  hinted  at  this,  she  told  me  rather 
hastily  that  she  and  Helen  were  exceedingly  busy  and 
much  taken  up  with  some  important  affairs. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  wait  now,  Githa,"  she  observed, 
"  foi»  I  have  to  go  to  Sloane  Street  for  Helen.  By  the 
bye,  I  have  not  given  you  her  message.  She  wants  you 
to  have  luncheoH  with  us  on  Thursday  if  your  father  has 
no  objection.  I  will  come  and  fetch  you,  and  if  he  would 
be  kind  enough  to  send  the  carriage  for  you,  you  could 
stay  for  tea." 

I  was  very  much  pleased  with  this  invitation,  and 
irlren  I  told  father  he  said  at  once  that  he  would  call  for 
me  on  his  way  home. 

80 


BEGGARS  ALL 

"  I  fancy  there's  something  up  with  your  dear  Miss 
Helen,"  he  said  mischievously ;  "  but  I  am  not  going  to 
spoil  sport,  and  wild  horses  would  not  drag  another  word 
out  of  me."  But  I  thought  he  was  only  teasing  me,  and 
I  pretended  to  take  no  notice. 

Miss  Redford  came  for  me  quite  early  on  Thursday. 
She  was  still  a  little  graver  in  manner,  though  she  made 
an  effort  to  be  cheerful.  On  our  way  to  the  flat  she  said 
rather  abruptly  that  she  had  some  news  to  tell  me ;  her 
sister  Helen  was  to  be  married  soon  after  Christmas. 

I  was  so  surprised  at  this  unexpected  intelligence 
that  I  stood  still  in  the  street  and  stared  at  her  until  a 
child  and  a  hoop  and  a  dog  came  blundering  up  against 
me,  and  then  Miss  Redford  laughed  and  took  my  arm, 
and  we  went  on  again. 

"  She  is  going  to  be  married  at  last,  after  all  these 
years,"  I  gasped ;  for  I  was  nearly  thirteen,  and  at  that 
age  a  girl  often  manifests  a  lively  interest  and  curiosity 
in  grown-up  love  affairs.  "  The  thoughts  of  youth  are 
long,  long  thoughts,"  and  already  Sydney  and  I  had  dis- 
cussed these  subjects  with  girlish  zest,  and  Sydney,  who 
was  a  year  and  a  half  older,  had  quite  a  repertoire  of  pretty 
romantic  stories,  all  based  on  fact,  which  her  mother  had 
told  her.  There  was  one  about  a  girl  named  Sheila,  who 
had  lived  in  their  village,  which  always  affected  me  when 
I  heard  it,  for  she  had  been  quite  a  heroine  in  her  humble 
way,  and  had  refused  to  marry  the  lad  she  loved  because 
her  parents  were  poor  and  needed  her  to  work  for  them — 
and  I  forget  the  rest,  except  that  Patrick  was  faithful 
to  her  and  that  it  all  ended  happily. 

Miss  Redford  gave  a  deep  sigh  when  I  had  made 
this  remark. 

"  You  may  well  say  after  all  these  years,  Githa,  for 
it  is  nearly  eight  years  since  she  and  Hamlyn  Seymour 
6  8i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

were  first  engaged,  and  even  now  Mrs.  Bevan  and  other 
kind  friends  think  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  wait  a  little 
longer." 

"  I  hope  they  will  not  be  very,  very  poor,"  I  observed 
anxiously. 

"  They  will  certainly  not  be  rich,"  returned  Miss 
Redford ;  "  but  Hamlyn  has  got  a  little  work,  and  hopes 
to  get  more  in  time,  and  Helen  will  go  on  with  her 
teaching." 

"  But  it  will  be  horrid  for  her  to  work  when  she  is 
married !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  And  she  is  always  so  tired." 

'T  don't  think  she  will  be  so  tired  then,"  observed 
Miss  Redford  in  rather  a  peculiar  tone.  "  Worry  is  more 
trying  than  any  amount  of  hard  work.  I  hope  you  will 
never  have  reason  to  find  this  out  for  yourself,  Githa." 
And  then  she  told  me  that  Helen  and  her  husband  would 
live  at  the  flat.  Mrs.  Brant  would  come  daily  for  a  few 
hours,  and  Helen  would  do  the  rest.  "  They  think  it  will 
work  excellently,"  she  continued ;  but  I  interrupted  her. 

"Will  you  live  with  them.  Miss  Redford?"  I  asked 
in  a  perplexed  voice,  for  the  flat  was  so  small  that  I 
wondered  how  three  people  could  be  accommodated  com- 
fortably, and  Mr.  Seymour  was  such  a  big  man. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  with  an  amused  smile ;  "  such  an 
arrangement  would  hardly  answer.  Cicely  and  Dr.  Bur- 
ford  have  been  very  kind,  and  have  begged  me  to  live 
with  them.  They  are  dear,  good  creatures,  and  the  chil- 
dren are  darlings;  but  I  prefer  to  be  independent,  so  I 
have  taken  rooms  not  far  from  St.  Olave's  Lodge." 

"  You  will  live  all  by  yourself  ?  Oh,  how  dull  you 
will  be !  "    But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Busy  people  have  no  time  to  be  dull,  and  I  shall 
be  surrounded  by  kind  friends.  Of  course,"  her  voice 
changing  a  little,  "  I  shall  miss  Helen — we  have  never 

82 


BEGGARS  ALL 

been  apart  in  our  lives ;  but  the  flat  is  very  near  Galvaston 
Terrace — within  five  or  six  minutes'  walk — so  I  dare  say 
I  shall  see  her  nearly  every  day." 

"  Galvaston  Terrace  ?  Do  you  mean  that  row  of 
houses  facing  rather  an  ugly  bit  of  the  river,"  I  inquired, 
"with  tall  chimneys  and  wharves  and  a  bridge?" 

"Yes ;  it  is  rather  an  old-world  place.  Do  you  remem- 
ber a  quaint  little  house  with  a  small  bow  window  and 
balcony,  almost  smothered  in  Virginia  creeper?  You 
used  to  call  it  the  Nutshell.  Well,  that  is  where  I  am 
going  to  live.  The  bow-windowed  room  is  to  be  my 
sitting-room,  and  a  very  snug  little  room  it  is ;  and  there 
is  a  comfortable  bedroom  at  the  back.  Mrs.  Church,  my 
landlady,  is  such  a  nice  woman.  So  I  think  I  have  done 
the  right  thing." 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  all  Miss  Redford  had 
told  me :  it  was  delightful  to  feel  that  she  would  be  so 
close  to  us ;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  my 
surprise  that  she  had  not  accepted  the  Burfords'  offer. 
They  lived  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and  once  when  Miss 
Redford  had  taken  me  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  we  had 
had  tea  at  Twyford  Lodge.  I  had  been  very  much 
impressed  by  the  handsome  house  and  our  lively,  good- 
natured  hostess.  I  thought  Cicely  charming,  and  Dr. 
Burford  exceedingly  kind  and  pleasant;  and  the  babies 
were  such  little  dears.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
Miss  Redford  would  have  been  happier  with  them ;  but 
when  I  hinted  at  this,  her  answer  was  very  decided. 

"  I  love  all  my  sisters  dearly,  and  Cicely  has  the 
sweetest  temper  in  the  world ;  but  I  should  not  care  to 
form  part  of  another  person's  household.  I  shall  be  far 
happier  and  freer  in  the  Nutshell.  I  really  think  I  must 
keep  that  name.  Don't  trouble  your  dear  little  head  about 
me,  Githa.     I  am  not  likely  to  have  much  of  my  own 

83 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

company.  Helen  and  Cicely  insist  that  I  must  spend  one 
evening  every  week  with  them ;  and  I  have  other  kind 

friends  who  are  equally  importunate But  here  we 

are  at  the  flat,  and  I  am  quite  out  of  breath  with  talking," 

Helen  opened  the  door  to  us.  She  received  me  affec- 
tionately. I  had  not  seen  her  since  my  illness,  and  she 
took  me  to  the  light  to  have  a  good  look  at  me. 

"  You  have  grown  a  good  deal,  and  still  look  thin  and 
weedy,"  she  remarked.     "  She  seems  older,  Claud." 

I  took  this  as  a  great  compliment,  for  I  was  secretly 
anxious  to  grow  up  as  fast  as  possible,  that  I  might  be 
a  companion  for  father,  and  take  the  head  of  his  dinner- 
table  ;  and  I  used  to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  nearly 
every  day  to  see  if  I  looked  older. 

I  thought  Miss  Helen  looked  years  younger,  and  so 
bright  and  pretty.  She  had  lost  her  fagged,  tired  expres- 
sion, and  her  forehead  was  quite  smooth.  She  seemed 
very  pleased  when  I  told  her  this,  and  blushed  in  quite  a 
girlish  way ;  but  she  only  said  quite  simply  that  she  felt 
better  and  happier,  now  difficulties  had  been  overcome 
and  she  could  see  her  way  more  clearly ;  and  after 
luncheon  she  took  me  into  her  room,  and  showed  me 
her  modest  trousseau,  and  several  very  pretty  and  useful 
presents. 

Aunt  Cosie  told  me  afterwards  that  Helen  had  gone 
through  a  great  deal  of  worry  and  anxiety ;  things  had 
seemed  so  hopeless  that  her  brother-in-law  Dr.  Burford, 
and  even  Cicely,  had  begged  her  to  break  off  her  engage- 
ment to  Mr.  Seymour  before  she  was  quite  worn  out, 
and  other  friends  had  given  the  same  advice. 

"  They  pestered  her  so,"  went  on  Aunt  Cosie,  "  that 
I  believe  she  did  offer  to  give  Hamlyn  Seymour  his 
freedom ;  but  he  refused  to  give  her  up.  '  We  will  stick 
to  each  other,'  he  said  to  her,  '  and  one  day  our  luck  will 


BEGGARS  ALL 

turn.'  And,  poor  dear,  she  was  so  fond  of  him  that  she 
would  have  waited  for  him  twenty  years  rather  than  give 
him  up." 

They  were  married  very  quietly  from  Twyford  Lodge, 
and,  to  my  delight,  I  was  allowed  to  go  to  the  wedding. 
Helen  wished  to  have  me  with  her,  so  father  gave  me 
permission,  and  I  had  a  lovely  dress  and  hat  for  the 
occasion. 

Helen  looked  very  sweet  on  her  wedding-day.  To 
my  great  disappointment  she  had  refused  to  wear  bridal 
array,  but  her  grey  travelling-dress  and  hat  suited  her 
perfectly. 

I  thought  Mr.  Seymour  looked  older — he  was  grow- 
ing grey,  and  his  shoulders  were  a  little  bowed,  as  though 
from  continuous  stooping  over  books ;  but  he  seemed  very 
happy.  Mr.  Pelham  acted  as  his  groomsman,  and  I 
noticed  that  after  the  ceremony  he  kept  rather  close  to 
Miss  Redford,  and  that  she  looked  more  cheerful  when 
he  talked  to  her. 

Poor  Miss  Redford !  I  am  afraid  it  was  rather  a 
trying  day  to  her ;  and  yet  I  knew  that  she  rejoiced  in 
Helen's  happiness,  and  had  done  all  in  her  power  to 
further  it  in  the  most  unselfish  way.  Of  course,  her 
feelings  were  a  little  mixed ;  and  once  or  twice  I  saw  her 
look  at  Helen  a  little  sadly  and  wistfully,  and  then  Mr. 
Pelham  said  something  to  her  in  an  undertone  that  made 
her  smile  again. 

I  was  just  looking  at  a  beautiful  little  picture  of  the 
Burford  children,  in  a  quiet  corner  behind  a  big  palm, 
when  I  heard  Helen's  voice  close  to  me.  She  was  speak- 
ing to  her  husband. 

"  Has  the  carriage  come  for  us,  Hamlyn  ?  I  thought 
we  were  not  to  start  until  three  ?  " 

"  No ;  we  have  another  twenty  minutes,  so  stay  where 
85 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

you  are,  love.  I  want  to  look  at  my  wife  for  a  moment. 
Nell,  is  this  real,  or  am  I  in  a  dream?  I  don't  believe 
that  I  am  never  to  be  a  lonely  beggar  again." 

I  heard  Helen  laugh  her  pretty,  crisp  laugh.  He  had 
taken  her  left  hand,  and  was  looking  at  the  wedding- 
ring. 

"  No ;  I  shall  always  be  there  to  take  care  of  you,"  she 
returned  softly,  and  then  I  managed  to  glide  unperceived 
out  of  my  corner. 

Miss  Redford  was  still  talking  to  Mr.  Pelham.  I 
thought  he  did  not  look  quite  so  ugly  that  day.  He  had 
rather  a  nice  voice,  and  he  seemed  talking  very  eagerly 
about  some  book  he  was  reading.  "  You  must  read  it, 
Claudia,"  I  heard  him  say  as  I  passed. 

"  Claudia  "  !  They  were  great  friends,  I  knew  ;  but 
I  never  guessed  that  they  were  so  intimate  that  he  called 
her  by  her  Christian  name.  But  they  were  both  of  them 
too  much  engrossed  with  each  other  to  notice  me ;  so  I 
hastened  to  join  Cicely  Burford,  who  was  beckoning  to 
me  from  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

She  made  me  sit  down  beside  her,  and  admired  my 
frock,  which  she  said  was  "  chic,"  whatever  that  meant, 
and  very  smart.  General  Fabian,  an  old  family  friend 
of  the  Redfords,  was  standing  just  behind  us  with  Dr. 
Burford,  and  I  heard  him  say  in  his  jovial  manner, 
"  '  Evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners  ' ;  do  you 
think  Claudia  means  to  follow  Helen's  bad  example — eh, 
Burford?  It  looks  uncommonly  like  it.  It  will  be  beg- 
gars all,  and  no  mistake." 

I  do  not  know  what  Dr.  Burford  would  have 
answered,  but  Cicely  looked  back  at  them  smilingly  and 
told  them  not  to  talk  nonsense;  but  General  Fabian 
refused  to  be  silenced. 

"  Pelham  is  a  clever  fellow,  though  he  is  a  bit  of  a 
86 


BEGGARS  ALL 

stick  at  the  War  Office.  He  ought  to  have  gone  in  for 
Hterature." 

But  Cicely  moved  away.  She  seemed  afraid  of  what 
he  might  say  next ;  so  she  hunted  Helen  out  of  her  easy 
corner,  and  took  her  up  to  the  nursery  to  bid  the  children 
good-bye ;  and  though  she  was  only  going  to  Ventnor 
for  a  fortnight,  little  Effie  and  Coralie  hung  about  her, 
and  gave  her  dozens  of  kisses — even  baby  Walter  clam- 
oured to  go  to  dear  Aunt  Nellie. 

We  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  at  Twyford  Lodge, 
and  after  dinner  we  drove  home,  and  Mr.  Pelham 
escorted  us.  Miss  Redford  had  insisted  on  sleeping  at  the 
flat  that  night,  though  Cicely  had  begged  her  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  to  remain  with  them ;  but  I  think  Miss  Red- 
ford  wanted  to  be  quite  alone. 

"  When  I  am  unhappy,"  she  said  to  me  once,  "  I 
prefer  my  own  company  to  any  other  person's ;  friends 
are  very  ready  with  their  sympathy  and  advice,  but  it 
is  sometimes  wiser  to  take  counsel  with  oneself." 

I  am  not  sure  that  Miss  Redford  acted  for  the  best 
that  night ;  the  little  flat  without  Helen  must  have  been 
very  dismal.  Although  Mrs.  Brant  had  made  up  a  grand 
fire  and  left  everything  comfortable,  she  owned  that  she 
slept  badly,  and  that  the  night  seemed  long ;  and  that 
was  perhaps  why  her  head  ached  and  her  eyes  looked  so 
heavy  the  next  morning.  But  nothing  would  induce  her 
to  take  another  holiday ;  she  said  I  had  wasted  too  much 
time  already  with  my  long  illness.  That  was  the  worst  of 
Miss  Redford — she  never  spared  either  herself  or  other 
people  when  there  was  any  work  to  be  done. 


87 


IX 

THE  CORNER  ROOM 


Then  I  thought  that  others  were  standing  by; 
"  Ah,  yes,"  they  said,  "  it  was  even  so ! 
Childhood  is  over,  hope  is  high; 
We  must  sail  in  that  ship  we  know  not  whither." 

Jean  Ingelow. 

Trust  is  the  best  of  relationships. — Teaching  of  Buddha. 

I  HAD  a  great  surprise  and  pleasure  on  my  fourteenth 
birthday. 

Easter  fell  very  early  that  year,  and  I  returned  from 
my  spring  visit  to  Bayfield  on  the  eve  of  my  birthday. 
Sydney  was  with  me.  I  had  begged  father,  as  a  great 
favour,  to  allow  me  to  invite  her  for  a  week  or  two,  and 
he  had  given  me  permission  very  readily;  but  Cousin 
Yvonne  had  hesitated,  as  though  she  were  unwilling  to 
part  with  her. 

''  It  will  be  a  pity  for  Sydney  to  leave  her  studies," 
she  observed ;  for  Sydney  was  attending  some  excellent 
classes  at  a  school  almost  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Bayfield. 
The  masters  came  from  London,  and  though  the  terms 
were  high,  the  girls  had  great  advantages.  In  fine 
weather  Sydney  used  to  cycle  over  to  Woodmancot,  and 
in  the  afternoon  Cousin  Yvonne  would  often  drive  over 
to  fetch  her.  She  spared  no  trouble  or  expense  on 
Sydney's  education,  and  she  thought  herself  well  repaid 
by  the  girl's  gratitude  and  devotion  to  her  adopted  mother. 
Sydney  was  secretly  longing  for  the  treat,  but  with  great 


THE  CORNER  ROOM 

magnanimity  she  refused  to  say  a  word ;  but  I  was  not 
so  unselfish,  and  I  urged  my  point  rather  persistently. 

"  Oh,  do  let  me  have  her,  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  had 
pleaded.  "  It  is  my  birthday,  remember,  and  I  never 
have  any  girls  of  my  own  age  to  stay  with  me,  and  it 
will  be  such  fun,"  and  then  Cousin  Yvonne  reluctantly 
yielded. 

"  It  must  be  only  for  a  fortnight,  then,  and  she  must 
come  back  to  her  day,"  she  said  very  decidedly ;  and  of 
course  we  both  faithfully  promised  to  be  satisfied  with 
this  condition. 

Cousin  Yvonne  gave  me  her  present  before  I  left. 
It  was  a  very  handsome  one — a  gold  bangle  set  with 
small  diamonds.  Aunt  Cosie  shook  her  head  when  I 
showed  it  to  her.  "  It  is  very  extravagant  of  Yvonne," 
she  observed ;  "  you  are  far  too  young  to  wear  such 
expensive  jewellery";  for  Aunt  Cosie  was  very  old- 
fashioned  in  her  ideas.  She  had  scolded  father  quite 
severely  when  he  gave  me  a  beautiful  string  of  pearls, 
and  advised  me  to  put  them  aside  until  I  was  older,  but 
I  could  not  be  induced  to  do  this. 

Father  received  Sydney  very  kindly.  We  both  dined 
with  him  that  night,  and  I  could  see  by  his  manner  that 
he  was  very  much  pleased  with  her. 

"  Miss  Herbert  is  just  the  sort  of  friend  I  like  you 
to  have,  Gipsy,"  he  said,  when  Sydney  had  retired  to  her 
room,  and  I  had  gone  down  again  to  wish  him  good- 
night. "  She  is  so  simple  and  natural,  but  there  is  plenty 
of  life  in  her.  Your  Cousin  Yvonne  must  have  taken 
great  pains  with  her." 

"Do  you  think  her  pretty,  father?"  I  asked,  and  he 
said  at  once  that  she  was  very  bonnie-looking,  and  in 
another  year  or  two  she  would  be  exceedingly  good- 
looking;   and,   as   father   was  a   judge   of  bjeauty,   this 

89 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

opinion  quite  satisfied  me.  But  the  next  moment  he 
turned  my  thoughts  in  another  direction,  for  to  my  great 
pleasure  he  told  me  that  for  the  future  he  would  expect 
me  always  to  be  with  him  at  late  dinner.  "  Your  Aunt 
Cosie  wanted  me  to  put  it  off  for  another  year,"  he  went 
on ;  "  but  I  do  not  see  why  we  should  be  deprived  of  the 
pleasure  of  each  other's  society.  I  will  dine  half-an-hour 
earlier,  and  that  will  give  me  a  longer  evening." 

I  was  so  delighted  with  this  unexpected  privilege  that 
I  could  scarcely  sleep  for  excitement.  I  knew  very  well 
that,  but  for  Aunt  Cosie's  advice,  father  would  always 
have  had  me  with  him  ;  but  she  and  Mardie  had  persuaded 
him  that  the  late  meal  would  be  bad  for  me,  and  that  I 
was  growing  and  needed  rest.  I  do  not  think  Mardie  was 
quite  satisfied  in  her  own  mind  that  father  was  doing 
the  right  thing,  but  she  would  not  have  said  so  for  worlds, 
and  she  took  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  in  preparing  my 
evening  frocks.  Father  always  liked  me  to  wear  white. 
He  used  often  to  take  a  flower  from  one  of  the  vases  on 
the  dinner-table  and  tuck  it  into  my  frock.  "  White  suits 
you,  Gipsy,  bvit  you  want  a  touch  of  colour  to  finish  you 
off,"  he  would  say  rather  critically. 

Sydney  overslept  herself  and  was  a  little  late  the  next 
morning,  but  I  found  father  standing  by  the  breakfast 
table,  looking  with  amused  eyes  at  all  the  parcels  and 
letters.  The  Redfords  and  Aunt  Cosie  and  the  servants 
always  remembered  me,  and  two  or  three  old  family 
friends;  but,  to  my  surprise,  father's  present  was  not 
among  them.  His  eyes  twinkled  as  he  saw  my  mystifi- 
cation. "  No,  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  Gip,  but  my  gift 
is  so  unwieldy  in  size  that  it  could  not  well  be  brought 
into  the  dining-room.  I  think  we  l;ad  better  wait  until  we 
have  finished  breakfast,  and  then  >ou  and  Miss  Herbert 
shall  give  me  your  opinion." 

90 


THE  CORNER  ROOM 

I  was  not  at  all  disposed  to  wait,  but  I  knew  father 
would  rather  have  his  breakfast  quietly,  and  though  I 
was  not  as  hungry  as  usual,  I  found  plenty  of  occupa- 
tion in  opening  my  parcels  and  letters.  There  was 
actually  one  from  Cousin  Yvonne,  although  we  had  only 
left  her  the  previous  afternoon ;  but  I  was  thankful  when 
father  pushed  aside  his  coffee-cup  and  told  us  both  to 
follow  him. 

"  It  is  on  the  first  floor,"  he  said  in  a  teasing  voice, 
"  and  I  have  got  it  safe  under  lock  and  key  " ;  and  to  my 
surprise  he  proceeded  to  unlock  the  door  of  a  room  next 
to  his  own,  which  to  my  knowledge  had  never  been  used. 
We  called  it  the  corner  room,  and  it  had  a  nice  view  of 
the  garden  and  the  river.  Mardie  always  said  it  was  the 
best  room  in  the  house,  but  the  dark,  heavy  furniture  and 
great  bed  never  pleased  me. 

Father  behaved  in  a  very  absurd  manner.  He  would 
insist  on  tying  his  handkerchief  over  my  eyes  before  he 
would  allow  me  to  cross  the  threshold,  and  then  he  took 
hold  of  my  arm  and  led  me  in  ;  but  when  he  removed  the 
bandage  I  was  too  much  astonished  to  speak. 

For  I  was  in  a  strange  and  most  charming  room — 
full  of  things  I  had  never  seen  before  in  my  life, — a  room 
tasteful  and  pretty  enough  for  a  young  princess,  and  yet 
adapted  to  the  needs  of  growing  womanhood.  The 
dainty  cretonne  hangings  for  the  brass  bedstead  were 
just  my  taste,  and  the  furniture,  though  modern  and  up- 
to-date,  seemed  exactly  to  suit  the  room.  Nothing  had 
been  forgotten ;  there  was  a  writing-table  with  its  pretty 
appendages,  and  a  delightful  couch,  and  the  easy-chair  by 
the  window  was  distinctly  inviting.  There  was  even  a 
cabinet  for  my  books,  and  two  or  three  lovely  engravings 
which  father  had  chosen  and  had  framed  for  me ;  and  it 
was  all  so  beautiful  and  so  unexpected  that  I  could  find 
no  words  to  thank  him. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Oh  fie,  Gipsy !  tears  on  your  birthday ;  what  will 
Miss  Herbert  think  of  us?"  but  I  could  not  help  crying 
a  little,  and  I  am  sure  Sydney  understood.  It  was  not  so 
much  the  surprise  and  pleasure — though  I  never  had 
been  more  astonished  and  delighted  in  my  life, — but  it 
was  the  tender  thought  for  my  comfort  that  thus  over- 
came me  and  which  made  me  cling  to  father  in  speechless 
gratitude. 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  much,  too  much !  "  I  sobbed ;  "  and  you 
have  never  been  away  at  all,  then,  except  for  the  week- 
end " ;  for  the  two  or  three  notes  I  had  had  from  him 
had  been  written  from  the  Metropole  at  Brighton,  and 
how  could  I  have  guessed  that  he  had  spent  most  of  the 
week  in  town  to  superintend  the  workmen.  Even  before  I 
left  home  I  knew  one  or  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor  were 
being  whitewashed  and  painted,  but  at  that  time  I  took 
little  heed  of  household  afifairs. 

I  think  father  was  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  plan, 
and  when  I  got  calm  we  went  round  the  room  arm-in-arm 
and  inspected  everything.  He  told  me  that  Miss  Red- 
ford  had  helped  him  a  good  deal  and  that  she  had  excel- 
lent taste. 

'*  I  always  meant  you  to  have  this  room,  Gipsy,"  he 
said;  "  I  was  only  waiting  until  you  were  old  enough  to 
appreciate  it.  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Marland  did  not  want  to 
part  with  you,  but  I  told  her  that  I  must  have  you  near 
me,"  and  father  had  that  nice  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  said 
this  which  always  made  me  feel  how  dear  I  was  to  him. 

I  had  never  had  such  a  birthday  as  that :  in  the  after- 
noon father  drove  us  in  his  phaeton  to  Richmond  Park, 
and  Miss  Redford  came  to  dinner;  and  after  coffee 
father  came  up  into  the  drawing-room  and  we  played 
round  games,  and  Sydney  was  the  life  of  the  party. 

Sydney  and  I  spent  a  very  happy  fortnight.     Miss 
92 


THE  CORNER  ROOM 

Redford  came  every  morning,  and  if  the  weather  permit- 
ted we  started  for  some  pleasant  expedition  or  other. 
Sydney  knew  little  of  London ;  we  took  her  to  St.  Paul's 
and  the  Tower,  and  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  the 
Kensington  Museum ;  and  once  father  came  home  to 
luncheon,  and  we  all.  Miss  Redford  included,  went  to 
a  matinee.  I  think  we  enjoyed  that  most  of  all.  The 
late  dinners  and  our  cosy  evenings  in  the  library  were 
also  delightful.  Sydney  once  said  rather  mischievously 
that  I  was  more  the  little  Princess  than  ever,  "  for  you 
have  quite  a  grand  air,  Githa,"  she  observed  merrily, 
"  when  you  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table." 

Father  and  Sydney  soon  became  good  friends.  "  He  is 
a  dear  man,"  she  said  to  me  on  the  last  evening,  "  and 
he  just  worships  the  ground  you  walk  on,  Githa,"  and 
Sydney  gave  a  soft  little  sigh  as  she  spoke ;  for  it  is 
always  sad  when  a  girl  is  unable  to  reverence  the  memory 
of  her  parent,  and  Sydney's  father  had  only  brought 
trouble  to  his  family. 

Sydney  owned  frankly  that  she  was  sorry  when  her 
visit  came  to  an  end,  but  she  confessed  at  the  same  time 
that  she  had  been  idle  long  enough,  "  I  must  work  all 
the  harder  for  my  holiday,"  she  observed  sensibly,  ''  and 
I  shall  look  forward  to  August  " ;  but  for  all  her  bright 
philosophy  Sydney  did  not  like  bidding  me  good-bye. 
She  was  becoming  much  attached  to  me  in  a  sisterly  way, 
and  I  returned   her  affection  very  warmly. 

The  next  two  years  passed  quietly  and  pleasantly.  As 
I  grew  older  I  worked  more  diligently  at  my  studies. 
Miss  Redford  still  came  each  day,  but  I  had  a  music 
master  and  attended  drawing  and  dancing  classes,  and 
some  excellent  lectures  on  Literature  and  Church  History. 
Miss  Redford  always  accompanied  me.  Later  on,  by 
her  advice   I   joined   French   and   German   conversation 

93 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

classes,  which  were  held  every  Wednesday  afternoon  by 
two  ladies,  Mademoiselle  Durant  and  Fraulein  Sonnen- 
schein,  who  lived  together  in  a  tiny  flat  in  Chelsea. 

These  conversation  classes  were  very  informal  and 
original.  The  number  of  young  ladies  never  exceeded 
six  or  eight ;  the  room  would  not  have  accommodated  a 
larger  number.  One  Wednesday  Fraulein  Sonnenschein 
presided,  and  the  conversation  was  in  German ;  on  the 
alternate  Wednesday  Mademoiselle  Durant  chattered  to 
us  in  choice  Parisian  French  while  we  sipped  cafe  an 
lait  and  ate  little  crisp  cakes  flavoured  with  cinnamon. 
We  all  enjoyed  these  little  gatherings  and  soon  forgot 
our  shyness.  Mademoiselle  had  a  knack  of  interesting 
us  in  some  subject ;  we  were  none  of  us  allowed  to  be 
silent.  If  the  conversation  languished,  she  would  start 
a  sort  of  round  game.  She  would  commence  a  simple 
pathetic  story,  and  just  as  we  were  becoming  interested 
in  it  she  would  break  off  with  a  nod,  for  the  young  lady 
sitting  next  her  to  take  up  the  thread.  How  we  used 
to  laugh  and  stumble  and  flounder  through  the  few 
sentences  we  were  compelled  to  say,  but  we  became  more 
fluent  after  a  time ;  indeed,  more  than  once  I  forgot 
myself  in  the  joy  of  narration,  and  only  stopped  when  a 
little  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the  circle. 

Mademoiselle  clapped  her  little  brown  hands :  "  C'est 
magnifique ;  Mademoiselle  Darnell  est  une  veritable 
raconteuse,"  she  said  in  her  thin  shrill  voice. 

When  I  was  sixteen  Sydney  and  I  had  a  wonderful 
treat,  for  Cousin  Yvonne  took  us  to  Switzerland  for  six 
weeks,  and  we  spent  two  or  three  days  in  Paris.  We 
were  both  wild  with  excitement  beforehand,  but  we 
never  guessed  what  the  realisation  would  be.  I  do  not 
know  how  Sydney  felt,  but  I  was  in  a  dream  of  enjoy- 


94 


THE  CORNER  ROOM 

ment  from  morning  to  night.  Cousin  Yvonne  used  to 
look  at  me  with  a  strange  httle  smile. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  young,  Githa,"  she  said  once.  "  You 
are  very  happy,  are  you  not,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  sighed.  "  I  am  having  such  a  glorious 
time,  I  feel  as  though  I  could  never  love  you  enough, 
Cousin  Yvonne,  for  giving  us  this  pleasure " ;  but  I 
wondered  why  Cousin  Yvonne  looked  at  me  so  seriously 
and  turned  away. 

One  day  when  I  was  in  one  of  my  wild  moods — I  had 
caught  hold  of  Sydney  and  made  her  waltz  with  me  over 
the  parquet  floor  of  the  big  saloon — I  saw  Cousin  Yvonne 
watching  us,  and  when  we  stopped  breathless  and  glow- 
ing with  exercise,  she  called  us  a  pair  of  silly  children. 
"  I  don't  believe  Githa  will  ever  be  a  grown-up,  sedate 
young  lady,"  she  continued ;  but  I  confuted  this  with 
much  eagerness. 

"  I  shall  be  seventeen  next  April,"  I  returned  with 
dignity.  "  You  will  see  that  I  shall  be  quite  grown  up 
by  then,  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  returned  grandly. 

But  I  was  very  much  surprised  when  she  said  almost 
passionately,  "  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  you  were  still 
little,  Githa,  and  that  you  need  never  grow  up."  And 
then  with  a  laugh  in  which  some  bitterness  was  infused 
she  continued,  "  No,  I  am  not  mad,  dear  child,  but  I 
know  life  somewhat  dilutes  the  sunshine  and  brings 
troubles.  But  there,  it  is  no  use  wishing  for  the  im- 
possible :  you  will  have  to  dree  your  weird,  Githa ;  be 
happy  and  free  from  care  as  long  as  you  can,  and  may 
those  days  be  far  away  indeed  when  you  will  say  to 
yourself,  '  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them.' "  Cousin 
Yvonne's  eyes  wore  a  sad  look  in  them  as  she  said  this. 

Mr.  Dennison,  the  vicar  of  Bayfield,  had  died  early  in 
the  spring,  and  his  successor  took  up  his  residence  in 

95 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

the  vicarage  while  we  were  in  Switzerland.  I  did  not  go 
to  Bayfield  for  the  last  fortnight  of  my  visit.  Cousin 
Yvonne  decided  to  go  to  Folkestone  for  the  remainder  of 
my  holiday ;  she  thought  Bayfield  would  seem  unusually 
quiet  after  all  our  excitement,  and  I  daresay  she  was 
right ;  but  I  was  a  little  curious  about  the  new  vicar,  and 
I  was  sorry  to  miss  Thurston,  but  Sydney  told  me  that 
he  and  Lady  Wilde  had  gone  to  Scotland  and  that  St. 
Helen's  Towers  was  empty. 

I  learnt  a  great  deal  about  the  new  vicar  in  Sydney's 
and  Cousin  Yvonne's  letters. 

"  The  Reverend  Paul  Carlyon  is  rather  an  imposing 
and  striking-looking  person,"  Sydney  wrote.  ''  Aunt 
Yvonne  and  I  saw  him  at  the  school  this  morning,  and 
he  introduced  himself  to  us,  and  was  quite  pleasant 
and  friendly.  Aunt  Yvonne  thinks  he  has  such  a  nice 
manner.  He  is  grey-haired,  but  his  face  is  not  at  all 
old ;  Aunt  Yvonne  is  sure  that  he  is  not  forty.  He  is 
very  alert  and  active-looking;  one  could  almost  take  him 
for  an  army  chaplain,  he  has  quite  a  martial  carriage. 
But  there.  Aunt  Yvonne  is  calling  me,  and  I  must  fly. 
Good-bye,  Princess,  to  be  continued  in  my  next." 

Sydney  generally  wrote  once  a  week,  and  I  waited 
anxiously  for  her  next  letter.  Cousin  Yvonne  had  simply 
mentioned  that  Mr.  Carlyon  was  a  good  preacher,  and 
that  his  sermon  on  the  previous  Sunday  had  been  exactly 
suited  to  his  congregation. 

"  He  is  very  straight  and  simple,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
there  is  no  seeking  for  effect ;  he  has  a  message  to  deliver, 
and  there  is  no  beating  about  the  bush.  I  should  think 
he  has  plenty  of  common  sense,  and  that  he  is  very  much 
in  earnest,"  and  this  was  high  praise  from  Cousin  Yvonne. 

Sydney's  next  letter  gave  me  more  personal  details. 


96 


THE  CORNER  ROOM 

Mr.  Carlyon  was  a  widower,  his  \vife  had  died  two  years 
ago,  and  he  had  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl, 

"  They  are  twins,  and  such  delightful  little  creatures," 
wrote  Sydney ;  "  they  are  about  four  years  old,  I  believe. 
The  girl  reminds  me  s  little  of  you,  Githa,  or  rather  of 
your  picture  as  a  child ;  she  has  the  sweetest  little  gipsy 
face  and  dark  eyes,  and  she  is  always  laughing;  and  the 
boy  is  such  a  pretty  little  fellow ;  and  they  have  such  a 
nice  nurse.  I  am  sure  you  would  delight  in  these  chil- 
dren, Githa,  you  are  such  a  baby  lover,  and  all  the 
village  infants  take  to  you. 

"  Mr.  Carlyon  looks  rather  old  to  be  their  father ; 
but  Aunt  Yvonne  says  I  am  writing  nonsense,  and  that  he 
is  not  really  old,  and  she  says  it  is  delightful  to  see  him 
with  his  children.  Do  you  know,  Githa,  his  wife  was 
the  daughter  of  an  Irish  Earl,  that  the  family  were  very 
poor  and  proud,  and  that  her  father  was  very  angry  when 
Lady  Doreen  refused  a  grand  match  to  marry  Mr. 
Carlyon.  Lady  Wilde,  who  had  seen  her,  said  she  was 
very  pretty  and  amiable,  and  that  the  family  were  so  poor 
that  they  lived  in  a  corner  of  the  castle,  and  that  they  had 
scarcely  money  enough  to  keep-up  appearances  " ;  and 
here  Sydney  broke  ofT  with  a  declaration  that  she  had 
really  no  more  time  for  gossip. 


97 


X 

ROY  AND  I  GO  DOWN  TO  BAYFIELD 

That   was   the   voyage   of  life,   good   sooth, 

The  voyage  of  life  set  forth  to  me 

In  a  dream.    Am  I  ready?    Nay,  in  truth, 

Not  ready.     Yet  childhood  is  over,  youth 

Is  come.     I  must  sail  to  that  great  sea. 

And  knew  it  not ;  but  my  prayer  awake 

Pleads  in  the  prayer  of  sleep 

Some  part  to  take.  Jean  Ingelow. 

I  HAD  a  strange  sort  of  half-waking  dream  on  the  eve 
of  my  seventeenth  birthday,  which  made  a  curious 
impression  on  my  mind. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  I  must  have  been  asleep,  and 
yet  the  dream  was  so  vivid  that  it  was  difficult  for  me 
to  realise  this. 

I  thought  that  I  was  sitting  on  the  balcony  outside 
our  drawing-room  window  looking  down  on  the  river. 
It  was  a  lovely  spring  evening,  and  I  was  admiring,  as 
I  often  did,  the  golden  lights  on  the  water.  The  western 
sky  was  softly  flushed  with  pink,  and  a  little  boat  with 
a  tawny  sail  floated  past.  There  was  a  man  and  a  dog 
on  the  deck,  and  I  distinctly  heard  the  dog  bark. 

"  After  all,  the  world  is  a  beautiful  place,"  I  said  to 
myself.  "  I  am  glad  I  am  only  seventeen,  and  have  so 
many  years  before  me  " ;  but  even  as  I  spoke  a  sudden 
cloud  blotted  out  the  river  and  the  sunset,  and  the  dark- 
ness of  night  seemed  to  enfold  me.  I  was  just  going  to 
rise  from  my  seat,  in  my  terror,  when  a  voice  behind  me 
said,  "The  child  is  a  woman  now,  and  it  is  only  right 

98 


ROY  AND  I  GO  DOWN  TO  BAYFIELD 

that  she  should  know.  I  shall  hold  you  to  your  promise." 
It  was  my  father's  voice ;  but  what  more  he  would  have 
said  it  was  impossible  to  know,  for  at  that  moment  I  woke 
and  found  myself  safely  in  bed  in  the  corner  room ;  but 
my  heart  was  beating  very  quickly,  and  it  was  some  time 
before  I  could  go  to  sleep  again,  so  great  was  my  terror 
at  that  sudden  darkness. 

I  have  had  many  strange  dreams  since  then,  which 
I  have  told  to  Mentor,  although  he  always  laughed  at 
them,  and  called  me  a  superstitious  little  heathen.  But 
it  never  entered  my  head  to  tell  that  dream  to  father. 
Perhaps  if  I  had  done  so,  it  would  not  have  haunted  me 
so  persistently. 

I  was  always  rather  imaginative  and  impressionable, 
and  it  struck  me  as  a  curious  coincidence  that  the  chapter 
for  my  devotional  reading  that  morning  should  be  the 
Transfiguration  on  Mount  Tabor.  Somehow  I  never 
realised  so  fully  before  those  words,  "  And  they  feared 
as  they  entered  into  that  cloud."  There  was  something 
so  human  in  their  terror ;  they  found  themselves  con- 
fronted by  unintelligible  mysteries,  and  blinded  by 
unearthly  light,  and  then  came  darkness.  Poor,  simple, 
ignorant  disciples,  how  relieved  they  must  have  been 
when  they  found  themselves  alone  with  the  beloved 
Master  again.  I  thought  father  looked  at  me  once  or 
twice  in  his  keen  way  as  we  sat  at  breakfast,  as  though 
to  read  the  cause  of  my  unusual  gravity. 

"  You  are  dreadfully  grown  up  this  morning,  Gipsy," 
he  said  at  last.  "  You  make  me  feel  quite  old.  I  wish 
you  could  have  had  your  dear  friend  Sydney  Herbert 
with  you  longer  " ;  but  I  assured  him  truthfully  that  I 
did  not  really  mind,  as  I  was  going  down  to  Bayfield 
in  a  day  or  two. 

"  Sydney  was  very  sorry  to  refuse,"  I  went  on,  "  but 
99 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

she  did  not  like  leaving  Cousin  Yvonne,  for  Cousin 
Yvonne  had  taken  cold,  and  seemed  so  unwell  and 
depressed  that  Sydney  had  not  the  heart  to  leave  her." 

I  explained  all  this  to  father,  and  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand ;  and  then  he  told  me  that  I  had  better  be  quick  over 
my  breakfast,  as  his  present  was  waiting  for  my  inspec- 
tion. But  this  time  I  knew  what  was  awaiting  me,  for 
father  had  always  promised  that  I  should  have  a  horse 
of  my  own  on  my  seventeenth  birthday.  The  previous 
year  he  had  given  me  a  beautiful  little  Yorkshire  terrier 
— Roy,  we  had  christened  him,  and  he  was  my  faithful 
little  companion  night  and  day.  He  always  slept  in  my 
room ;  and  as  Cousin  Yvonne's  favourite,  Fiddle,  had 
departed  this  life,  Roy  was  allowed  to  accompany  me  to 
Prior's  Cot,  where  he  speedily  made  himself  at  home. 
He  trotted  after  me  as  usual  when  we  went  to  the  front 
door  to  welcome  my  new  favourite,  Bab. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  creature,  with  a  dark  glossy 
brown  coat  and  a  small  head,  and  she  was  as  playful  as  a 
kitten,  though  wath  no  vice  in  her.  Indeed,  she  received 
me  very  kindly,  and  took  several  lumps  of  sugar  out  of 
my  hand,  and  only  nuzzled  me  for  more  when  I  patted 
her  sleek  side. 

Father  had  taken  a  whole  holiday,  and  we  rode  in  the 
Park  most  of  the  morning.  I  had  ridden  before  with 
him  there,  but  on  that  day  I  had  a  new  habit  and  felt 
unusually  smart.  I  noticed  people  looked  at  us  a  great 
deal,  but  I  thought  they  were  admiring  Bab  and  Sultan. 

We  had  tea  that  afternoon  with  Aunt  Cosie;  but  we 
could  not  stay  long,  as  father  had  promised  to  take  me 
to  the  theatre  that  evening,  and  we  were  to  dine  earlier 
than  usual. 

Mardie  helped  me  to  dress.  I  think  she  loved  the 
task ;  and   she  always  brushed   my  hair  at  night,  and 

lOO 


ROY  AND  I  GO  DOWN  TO  BAYFIELD 

came  in  the  last  thing  to  tuck  me  up  and  see  that  I  was 
comfortable ;  and  though  I  was  a  grown-up  young  lady 
and  the  mistress  of  my  father's  house,  I  should  not  have 
rested  half  so  well  without  her  loving  kiss  and  blessing. 

Mardie  had  selected  my  prettiest  dress,  because  it 
was  my  birthday.  It  was  a  soft  cream-coloured  silk, 
and  before  I  came  downstairs  I  paused  for  a  moment  to 
regard  myself  in  the  big  glass  that  hung  on  the  landing. 
I  wanted  to  know  how  I  looked  on  my  seventeenth 
birthday. 

No,  it  was  no  longer  the  child  Githa ;  but  it  was  still 
the  same  brown  oval  little  face,  with  thoughtful  dark 
eyes  and  masses  of  ruddy-brown  hair  which  seemed  to 
wave  and  curl  at  its  own  sweet  will  in  spite  of  all  mine 
and  Mardie's  efforts ;  but  though  I  still  bore  my  pet 
name  Gipsy,  my  arms  and  neck  were  as  fair  as  Sydney's, 
and  my  pearl  necklace  was  still  my  favourite  ornament. 
To  please  father  I  had  one  or  two  crimson  roses  fastened 
on  my  bodice ;  a  friend  had  sent  me  a  box  of  hot-house 
flowers,  and  I  had  put  these  aside  for  the  evening. 
Cousin  Yvonne  had  given  me  a  second  bangle  still  hand- 
somer than  the  first,  and  I  felt  a  girlish  satisfaction  when 
father  came  out  of  his  room  and  joined  me,  for  I  saw 
his  look  of  approval,  though  he  pretended  to  twit  me  with 
my  vanity. 

But  I  was  not  admiring  myself;  I  was  only  curious  to 
know  if  I  really  appeared  grown  up.  Father  always 
looked  so  handsome  and  distinguished  in  evening  dress 
that  I  longed  to  do  him  credit.  I  managed  to  convey 
this  to  him  rather  bashfully;  and  he  assured  me  seriously 
that  he  was  quite  satisfied  with  my  appearance,  and 
would  not  have  me  look  otherwise  for  the  world,  and 
I  am  sure  he  meant  it. 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  I  went  down  to  Bayfield. 

lOI 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Mardie  escorted  me  as  usual.  She  was  going  to  stay 
with  a  cousin  at  Henley,  and  would  go  on  in  the  train. 
Sydney  had  promised  to  meet  me  at  the  station.  As  she 
was  over  eighteen  her  education  was  practically  com- 
pleted ;  but  by  Cousin  Yvonne's  advice  she  still  attended 
the  French  and  German  classes.  She  also  had  singing 
lessons,  and  was  fast  developing  a  very  pretty  voice. 
Roy  sat  opposite  us  in  the  railway  carriage,  with  the  sun 
shining  on  his  golden  head.  He  was  grinning  at  us  with 
sheer  delight,  and  showing  his  little  pearly  teeth  in  the 
sweetest  way.  Roy  was  not  fidgety  and  restless  like  some 
dogs  when  they  are  travelling.  He  was  very  well  bred 
and  trained,  and  always  behaved  like  a  gentleman ;  only, 
when  he  caught  sight  of  Sydney  he  quivered  from  head  to 
tail  with  repressed  excitement. 

I  think  father  would  have  called  Sydney  bonnie  if  he 
had  seen  her  that  day.  She  was  rather  tall,  and  I  always 
felt  short  beside  her,  though  father  said  I  was  exactly 
the  right  height  for  a  woman. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  still  growing,"  he  observed 
somewhat  ruefully,  which  was  the  truth,  for  I  did  not 
attain  my  proper  height  until  I  was  eighteen. 

Sydney  was  certainly  a  very  pretty  girl.  Her  bright, 
healthy  colouring,  and  her  frank,  candid  expression, 
were  very  attractive,  and  then  she  had  such  beautiful 
Irish  grey  eyes  with  long  dark  lashes.  We  had  greeted 
each  other  afifectionately  before  I  saw  that  she  was  not 
alone,  for  a  dark,  good-looking  young  man,  standing  a 
few  steps  behind  her,  raised  his  hat  and  smiled  at  me, 
and  then  I  saw  it  was  Thurston  Wilde.  I  had  not  seen 
him  for  more  than  a  year,  and  for  the  moment  I  had 
not  recognised  him. 

To  my  amusement  I  discovered  that  he  had  been  also 
taken  aback  at  my  grown-up  appearance,  and  though  he 


ROY  AND  I  GO  DOWN  TO  BAYFIELD 

seemed  pleased  to  see  me,  and  said  so  quite  nicely,  he 
was  rather  shy  with  me,  and  hesitated  perceptibly  before 
he  called  me  by  my  name ;  but  I  was  not  going  to  be 
stiff  with  my  old  playfellow  because  he  had  grown  into 
a  handsome  and  striking  young  man,  and  my  friendliness 
thawed  him,  and  we  were  soon  chatting  in  our  old  way. 
Thurston  had  his  dogs  with  him — a  beautiful  red-brown 
setter,  and  a  large  bull-terrier,  who  alarmed  me  exces- 
sively by  sniffing  round  Roy  in  rather  a  contemptuous 
way ;  but  Thurston  assured  me  that  he  was  only  making 
friendly  overtures,  and  that  he  was  the  most  good-natured 
fellow  in  the  world. 

**  Ben  never  hurts  small  dogs.  You  need  not  be 
afraid,  Githa,"  he  protested,  as  I  tucked  Roy  under  my 
arm ;  "  better  let  them  make  friends  at  once,"  and  then 
I  acted  on  this  advice.  Thurston  seemed  very  proud  of 
his  new  acquisition,  and  he  tried  hard  to  make  me  admire 
Ben ;  but  bull-terriers  were  not  to  my  liking,  and  though 
Ben's  coat  was  as  white  and  glossy  as  satin,  I  objected 
to  his  broad  blunt  nose  and  the  ridiculous  pink  rims  to 
his  eyes,  and  I  patted  his  bullet  head  reluctantly  because 
Thurston  expected  me  to  do  so;  but  I  made  amends  by 
my  praises  of  my  old  friend  Laddie,  who  was  such  a 
beautiful  creature  and  so  gentle  and  affectionate,  and 
Thurston  had  had  him  from  a  puppy. 

The  luggage  had  been  put  on  the  carriage  by  this 
time,  and  we  were  about  to  follow,  when  Thurston  said 
suddenly,  "  There  is  the  vicar,  Sydney ;  I  think  he  is 
coming  across  to  speak  to  us."  And  he  was  right,  for 
the  next  moment  Sydney  had  shaken  hands  with  him  and 
was  introducing  him  to  me. 

Sydney's  description  of  Mr.  Carlyon  had  given  me  the 
impression  that  he  was  a  grey-haired  boy;  but  this  idea 
was  wrong,  there  was  nothing  boyish  about  the  Rev. 

103 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Paul  Carlyon.  He  was  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
might  probably  be  two-  or  three-and-forty.  It  was  only 
his  grey  hair  which  made  people  think  him  older.  He 
had  rather  a  thin  brown  face  and  dark  eyes,  and  his 
normal  expression  was  somewhat  grave;  but  his  smile 
and  voice  were  exceedingly  pleasant. 

"  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  you  from  your  friend 
Miss  Herbert,"  he  said,  as  we  shook  hands,  "  and  I  knew 
you  were  expected  to-day  " ;  and  then  he  added,  "  Miss 
Herbert  is  one  of  my  best  workers,  so,  of  course,  I  have 
a  great  respect  for  her." 

Sydney  laughed  and  blushed  a  little. 

"  I  teach  in  the  Sunday  School  now,  Githa,"  she 
observed ;  "  you  must  come  with  me  next  Sunday  and  see 
my  class — such  dear  little  children.  But  we  really  must 
not  linger  any  longer,  Aunt  Yvonne  will  be  looking  out 
for  us."  At  this  broad  hint  Mr.  Carlyon  put  us  into  the 
carriage.  I  noticed  that  both  he  and  Thurston  stood 
outside  the  station  looking  after  us  until  we  were  nearly 
out  of  sight. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  new  vicar?  "  asked 
Sydney  in  an  interested  voice. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  him,"  was  my  impulsive 
answer.  "  He  is  a  very  uncommon  sort  of  person,  and 
perhaps  a  little  formidable  at  first  sight,  but  he  is  unde- 
niably a  gentleman,  and  he  has  such  a  very  pleasant 
manner." 

"  That  is  what  Aunt  Yvonne  says ;  she  has  taken  to 
him  and  likes  him  immensely.  She  says  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  talk  to  him,  he  is  so  well  informed  and  so  broad- 
minded;  she  declares  that  he  preaches  the  gospel  of 
common  sense — you  know  what  funny  things  Aunt 
Yvonne  says  sometimes ;  but  his  sermons  are  always  so 
simple  and  practical,  and  seem  to  help  one  so  nicely." 

104 


ROY  AND  I  GO  DOWN  TO  BAYFIELD 

This  was  very  satisfactory;  but  I  was  not  inclined 
to  discuss  sermons  just  then,  so  I  turned  the  conversa- 
tion into  another  channel. 

"  What  a  handsome  fellow  Thurston  Wilde  is,"  I 
observed  so  abruptly  that  Sydney  gave  a  little  start.  ''  He 
was  always  a  good-looking  boy;  but  he  is  really  quite 
striking  with  his  clear  olive  complexion  and  dark  eyes: 
there  was  always  something  rather  foreign  about  him." 

"  His  mother  was  Andalusian  ;  I  suppose  that  accounts 
for  it.  Yes,  every  one  thinks  Thurston  very  handsome." 
Sydney  spoke  rather  hurriedly.  "  By  the  bye,  Githa, 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  we  are  all  to  dine  at  St.  Helen's 
Towers  to-morrow.  Lady  Wilde  fixed  the  evening  nearly 
a  week  ago.     Mr.  Carlyon  is  also  invited." 

I  was  rather  pleased  at  this  piece  of  intelligence, 
although  Lady  Wilde  was  not  a  favourite  of  mine.  I 
always  agreed  with  Cousin  Yvonne  that  she  was 
extremely  limited  in  her  ideas ;  but  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  meet  Thurston  and  Mr,  Carlyon.  I  always,  during 
my  visits  to  Bayfield,  spent  an  evening  at  St.  Helen's 
Towers  with  Cousin  Yvonne  and  Sydney,  but  only  the 
last  three  years  I  had  been  invited  to  take  my  place 
at  the  dinner-table.  Sydney  dined  there  constantly,  and 
was  a  great  favourite  with  Lady  Wilde. 

"  Will  Cousin  Yvonne  be  well  enough  to  go  ? "  I 
asked.  "  You  told  me  in  your  last  letter  that  she  was 
still  very  poorly." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  true,"  replied  Sydney ;  "  but  her 
cold  is  certainly  better,  and  I  know  she  intends  to  go. 
I  can't  think  what  ails  Aunt  Yvonne,  she  is  depressed  and 
unlike  herself,  only  she  does  not  like  me  to  notice  it." 

I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  this.  I  knew  Sydney  never 
exaggerated  things.  Cousin  Yvonne's  constitution  was 
very  strong  and  she  rarely  ailed  anything;  her  quiet  life 

105 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  active  habits  were  all  in  her  favour ;  but  I  had  noticed 
something  strained  and  forced  in  her  letters  lately,  as 
though  writing  were  an  effort,  and  they  had  certainly 
seemed  less  cheerful  than  usual. 

Cousin  Yvonne  was  not  in  the  porch  to  receive  me, 
but  she  waved  to  me  from  the  drawing-room  window, 
and  as  I  ran  into  the  hall  she  was  standing  smiling  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Was  your  train  late,  Githa  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  have 
been  looking  out  for  the  last  half-hour  " ;  and  I  told  her 
that  Mr.  Carlyon  and  Thurston  had  detained  us  at  the 
station.    "  I  think  I  was  ten  minutes  late,"  I  finished. 

Cousin  Yvonne  did  not  answer;  she  was  regarding 
me  rather  thoughtfully.  Sydney  was  right,  and  she 
looked  far  from  well.  She  was  thinner,  and  there  were 
dark  lines  under  her  eyes.  She  wore  a  little  wrap  as 
though  she  had  not  quite  thrown  off  her  cold,  and  perhaps 
this  made  her  look  a  little  older,  but,  as  usual,  she  made 
light  of  her  indisposition. 

"  It  was  my  own  fault ;  you  must  not  pity  me,  Githa. 
I  got  wet  one  damp  day,  and  did  not  change  my  things 
at  once  when  I  came  in.  Mr.  Carlyon  was  waiting  to 
speak  to  us  about  a  sick  woman,  and  I  could  not  leave 
until  he  had  finished  his  business." 

"  Yes,  and  Sydney  told  me  that  you  refused  to  nurse 
yourself  properly  " ;  but  Cousin  Yvonne  only  smiled  and 
said  that  she  was  always  a  bad  patient  and  disliked  lying 
in  bed, 

"  A  cold  will  have  its  way,"  she  went  on,  "  Of  course 
it  has  pulled  me  down  a  little,  and  I  feel  unusually  lazy, 
but  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to  St,  Helen's  Towers  to-morrow 
evening."  And  then  she  followed  me  to  my  room ;  but 
I  would  not  let  her  stay  and  help  me,  for  she  looked  far 
too  white  and  tired  for  exertion. 

io6 


ROY  AND  I  GO  DOWN  TO  BAYFIELD 

We  spent  a  delightful  evening.  Sydney  sang  to  us, 
and  I  had  so  much  to  tell  them  about  Helen  Seymour's 
little  girl,  to  whom  Miss  Redford  and  I  had  stood  spon- 
sors. Mr.  Pelham  was  godfather,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy 
had  made  the  most  magnificent  christening  cake,  and  we 
had  had  quite  a  festive  evening  in  the  little  flat. 

"  Helen  looked  sweeter  than  ever  with  baby  in  her 
arms,"  I  continued.  "  They  are  so  very  happy,  Cousin 
Yvonne — only,  of  course,  she  has  been  obliged  to  give 
up  her  teaching;  but  Miss  Redford  thinks  Mr.  Seymour 
is  getting  on  now,  and  they  will  soon  be  able  to  have  a 
nice  little  house  of  their  own." 

"  And  how  does  the  other  affair  progress  ?  "  asked 
Cousin  Yvonne  significantly,  for  it  was  an  open  secret 
to  all  their  friends  that  there  was  some  understanding 
between  Miss  Redford  and  Elmer  Pelham.  If  they  were 
not  actually  engaged,  they  were  tolerably  sure  of  each 
other.  When  Miss  Redford  and  I  spent  an  evening  at 
the  Burfords'  he  was  always  there,  and  he  talked  more 
to  her  than  to  any  one  else,  and  they  always  seemed  so 
happy  in  each  other's  company.  But  Miss  Redford  was 
very  reserved,  and  it  was  hardly  likely  that  she  would 
choose  a  girl  of  seventeen  for  her  confidante.  But,  as 
Cousin  Yvonne  and  Sydney  knew,  I  was  very  much 
interested  in  what  I  termed  the  Claudian  Romance. 


107 


XI 

"FUNERALS  AND  ANGELS" 


Come  to  me,  O  ye  children ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 

What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  saying 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 
And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 
When  compared  with  your  caresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks. 

Longfellow. 

My  first  morning  at  Ba3^eld  was  always  spent  in  revisit- 
ing all  my  favourite  haunts  and  looking  up  old  friends. 
Cousin  Yvonne  had  generally  been  my  companion,  but  on 
this  occasion  Sydney  accompanied  me,  as  Cousin  Yvonne 
thought  it  better  to  reserve  herself  for  the  evening.  She 
was  down  to  breakfast  as  usual,  but  her  appearance 
pleased  me  even  less  than  it  had  the  previous  night.  She 
was  certainly  thinner  and  paler,  and  there  was  a  heaviness 
about  her  eyes  as  though  she  had  not  slept.  When  I 
questioned  her  she  answered  rather  reluctantly  that  she 
had  not  rested  as  well  as  usual,  but  she  refused  to  be 
drawn  into  any  discussion  about  her  health.  "  Of  course 
I  look  old  and  faded  beside  your  fresh  young  face,"  she 
observed  with  a  faint  smile ;  "  comparisons  are  odious, 
Githa," — and  then  she  changed  the  subject  by  asking 
Sydney  to  do  a  little  commission  for  her  in  the  village. 
I  felt  worried  about  Cousin  Yvonne.  She  was  evi- 
io8 


FUNERALS  AND  ANGELS 

dently  far  from  well,  and  very  much  out  of  spirits ;  but 
it  was  no  use  asking  her  questions,  it  only  vexed  her. 
She  was  extremely  reserved  about  herself,  and  was  not 
always  disposed  for  sympathy ;  and  yet  no  one  could  be 
kinder  or  more  considerate  of  other  people's  ailments. 
I  think  she  found  it  easier  to  sympathise  with  others 
than  to  accept  pity  or  kindly  offices  for  herself. 

It  is  rather  difficult  to  understand  these  strong,  self- 
contained  characters,  but  from  a  child  I  had  always  felt 
instinctively  there  were  hidden  depths  in  Cousin  Yvonne's 
nature  that  no  youthful  plummet  could  sound,  and  this 
made  me  somewhat  shy  with  her.  I  was  disposed  to 
argue  the  matter  a  little  longer  with  Sydney,  but  she 
very  wisely  advised  me  to  put  all  worrying  thoughts  out 
of  my  head  and  enjoy  myself ;  and  just  because  the  spring 
sunshine  was  so  beautiful  and  the  sap  of  youth  ran  so 
strongly  through  my  veins,  I  found  it  wonderfully  easy 
to  follow  this  sensible  advice,  and  we  spent  a  delightful 
morning. 

I  was  very  kindly  welcomed  by  my  old  friends,  and 
received  plenty  of  compliments,  all  expressed  character- 
istically, from  old  Mrs.  Tippet's  "  You  do  be  growed, 
surely.  Miss,  into  quite  a  grand  young  lady,"  to  my  prime 
favourite,  Daniel  Thoroughgood,  who  lifted  his  withered 
old  hands  with  the  exclamation,  "  Bless  my  soul,  Missie, 
if  you  aren't  a  sight  for  sore  een ;  she  will  make  some 
hearts  ache,  for  sure — won't  she,  old  woman?"  with  a 
nod  to  his  better  half,  who  was  busy  at  her  washing-tub. 
But  I  only  laughed  as  I  showed  Daniel  the  pipe  I  had 
brought  for  him  from  London. 

I  always  visited  the  church  and  the  churchyard  last. 
It  was  a  lovely  place,  especially  in  early  summer,  when 
the  roses  that  bordered  the  path  leading  from  the  vicarage 
garden  were  in  full  bloom.    As  I  sat  in  the  church  I  used 

109 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

to  fancy  the  air  that  stole  through  the  open  windows 
brought  their  perfume.  To  me  it  was  the  ideal  of  a 
country  churchyard,  it  was  so  quiet  and  secluded,  and 
the  graves  were  so  well  kept,  and  everywhere  there  were 
roses  or  clumps  of  Madonna  lilies.  Cousin  Yvonne  loved 
it  too,  for  I  heard  her  say  more  than  once  that  she  would 
rather  be  buried  in  Bayfield  churchyard  than  in  any  other 
place.  "  I  should  like  to  feel  that  all  my  old  friends  and 
neighbours  would  give  me  a  kindly  thought  as  they 
passed — and  then  so  often  there  are  little  children  playing 
there — and  the  birds  and  the  bees  and  the  butterflies  love 
it."  I  remembered  Cousin  Yvonne's  speech  as  we 
unlatched  the  gate  leading  from  the  village,  for  the  first 
sight  that  met  my  eyes  were  two  small  children  sticking 
half-withered  flowers  in  a  newly  made  grave — a  mere 
mound  of  brown  earth. 

"  Why,  these  are  the  twins,"  exclaimed  Sydney  in  an 
amused  voice ;  "  we  must  go  and  see  what  they  are  doing. 
They  are  very  fond  of  playing  in  the  churchyard,  but 
they  are  not  generally  alone."  And  then  we  made  our 
way  to  them,  but  the  little  creatures  were  too  busily 
absorbed  to  notice  us ;  the  little  girl  was  evidently  remon- 
strating with  her  brother. 

"  Silly  boy,"  she  was  saying,  "  you  ar'n't  planting,  you 
are  frowing  the  poor  flowers  in  by  their  heads.  They 
won't  grow  neither." 

"  *  Won't  grow  neither,'  "  repeated  the  boy  anxiously  ; 
and  then  he  looked  up,  and  smiled  as  he  saw  Sydney. 
He  was  a  pretty  little  fellow  in  a  white  sailor  suit,  and 
he  looked  younger  than  his  sister.  I  remembered  that 
Sydney  had  declared  that  little  Stella  reminded  her  of  my 
childish  portrait,  but,  except  in  a  certain  similarity  of 
colouring,  I  could  see  no  resemblance  in  the  laughing 
face  and  roguish  eyes  before  me.    From  the  way  Stella 


FUNERALS  AND  ANGELS 

looked  up  at  me  from  under  her  dark  lashes,  I  guessed 
she  was  already  a  baby  coquette,  but  she  was  a  dimpled 
bewitching  little  creature.  The  children  welcomed 
Sydney  with  evident  pleasure,  and  she  hugged  them 
impartially. 

"Why  are  you  alone,  darlings?"  she  asked,  when  I 
had  made  friends  with  them. 

Then  Stella,  who  evidently  took  the  lead,  was  very 
ready  with  her  answer. 

"  Peace  was  busy,  so  Boy  brought  us,  'cos  we  wanted 
to  play  funerals  and  angels." 

"  Wanted  to  play  funerals,"  echoed  Cyril,  who  seemed 
rather  parrot-like  in  his  observations. 

"And  whose  grave  are  you  decorating,  my  sweet?" 
asked  Sydney,  trying  to  preserve  her  gravity,  as  she 
looked  at  the  uncomfortable  festoon  of  dilapidated  blos- 
soms, many  of  them  waving  unsightly  stalks  in  the  upper 
air. 

"  Poor  old  man,  what  Boy  changed  into  an  angel 
yesterday,"  was  the  puzzling  answer. 

"  Boy  read  over  the  black  box,  and  old  man  went 
up  and  up  and  up,  where  no  one  but  God  could  find 
him." 

"  Old  man  went  up  and  up,"  murmured  Cyril  placidly ; 
and  then  he  added  of  his  own  accord,  "  Paul  made  him 
into  an  angel." 

I  was  utterly  mystified ;  and  when  she  saw  my  face, 
Sydney  turned  suddenly  helpless  with  suppressed  laugh- 
ter, and  was  obliged  to  sit  down  on  an  adjoining  tomb- 
stone. 

She  told  me  afterwards  that  the  children  were  evi- 
dently alluding  to  a  poor  old  tramp  who  had  been  taken 
ill  at  a  cottage  near,  and  had  made  rather  an  edifying 
end.     The  vicar  had  expressed  his  opinion  that  the  poor 

III 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

wanderer  had  seen  better  days,  and  he  had  warmly  com- 
mended the  good  Samaritans  who  had  received  him  under 
their  roof.  Sydney,  who  had  attended  that  humble 
funeral,  had  been  much  impressed  by  the  good  feeling  of 
the  villagers. 

"  The  children  were  there  with  their  nurse,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  and  they  behaved  quite  nicely.  But  do  you 
know,  Githa,  I  believe  those  babies  have  got  all  sorts  of 
queer  ideas  jumbled  up  in  their  little  heads  about  their 
father  and  the  funeral  service.  Stella  seems  to  think 
that  he  has  something  to  do  with  changing  people  into 
angels.  Aunt  Yvonne  and  I  saw  that  old  tramp  the  very 
day  he  entered  the  village — such  a  miserable,  broken- 
down  old  creature  he  looked ;  and  when  Stella  said  just 
now,  '  Old  man  went  up  and  up  and  up,'  it  seemed  just 
like  a  sort  of  glorified  Jack-in-a-box  " ;  and  then  we  both 
went  off  into  a  fit  of  laughing,  for  really  it  was  too 
comical.  There  is  no  knowing  what  curious  ideas  chil- 
dren get  in  their  heads,  and  these  little  innocents  evi- 
dently regarded  their  father  as  a  miracle  worker,  and  the 
funeral  service  as  a  sort  of  occult  force  for  the  transfor- 
mation of  dead  men  into  angels. 

Perhaps  our  laughter  was  demoralising,  for  Stella 
suddenly  became  pettish,  and  snatched  the  limp  flowers 
out  of  Cyril's  hot,  dirty  little  hand. 

"  Tired  of  silly  game,"  she  pouted ;  "  frow  flowers 
away."  And  then  looking  up  in  my  face,  she  asked 
coaxingly,  "  Is  you  quite  growed  up,  dear,  like  Her- 
berts?" 

This  was  rather  a  shock  after  all  the  compliments  I 
had  received  that  morning;  but  I  assured  her  modestly 
that  I  considered  myself  quite  a  grown-up  young  lady. 
My  answer  seemed  to  disappoint  her. 

"  I  thought  you  was  only  a  big  girl  what  played  games 


FUNERALS  AND  ANGELS 

and  learned  lessons,"  she  returned  so  dejectedly  that  I 
reassured  her  on  the  latter  point. 

"  Oh,  I  still  learn  lessons,  Stella,"  for  Miss  Redford 
and  I  always  read  French  or  German  for  an  hour  every 
morning,  and  I  still  had  my  music  and  drawing  masters, 
and  attended  the  conversation  classes ;  Cousin  Yvonne 
had  begged  me  to  continue  my  studies.  "  People  talk  of 
a  girl's  education  being  finished  at  seventeen  or  eighteen," 
she  observed,  "  as  though  a  woman's  education  is  ever 
ended.  Some  only  learn  their  hardest  lesson  at  the  close 
of  life."    And  I  certainly  think  she  was  right. 

Stella  looked  a  little  happier  after  this  admission. 
She  sidled  up  to  me  in  a  confidential  way.  "  It  is  nice 
to  be  a  big  girl  and  play  games.  Boy  is  ever  so  much 
bigger  than  you  and  he  'vents  lovely  games." 

"  Paul  'vents  lovely  games,"  echoed  Cyril  with  a 
seraphic  smile.  Then  he  jumped  up  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
"  There's  Paul !  "  as  the  little  gate  leading  from  the 
Vicarage  was  quietly  unlatched,  and  Mr.  Carlyon  came 
striding  up  the  path  between  the  rose-bushes,  now  cov- 
ered with  crinkly  green  leaves.  There  was  something 
certainly  martial  in  the  man's  bearing,  and  how  silvery 
his  closely-cropped  grey  head  looked  in  the  sunshine. 
It  matched  oddly  with  the  thin  brown  face  and  vivid 
dark  eyes.  It  was  touching  to  see  how  the  two  small 
children  rushed  at  him,  Stella  clinging  to  his  arm,  and 
Cyril  clasping  his  knee. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  children,  until  I  have  paid  my 
respects  to  these  ladies  " ;  and  then  he  shook  hands  with 
us,  though  his  movements  were  sadly  impeded.  The  next 
moment  with  one  hand  he  lifted  Cyril  to  his  shoulder  and 
gave  the  other  to  Stella.  "  Peace  will  be  here  directly," 
he  observed.  Then  Stella  frowned  and  shook  her  curls 
in  rather  a  mutinous  fashion. 
8  113 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Don't  want  Peace.  Stay  with  Boy  and  'vent  new 
games." 

"  Paul  'vent  new  games,"  imitated  Cyril,  holding 
tightly  round  his  father's  neck. 

Mr.  Carlyon  smiled.  "  I  am  afraid  I  spoil  them.  Miss 
Darnell ;  your  cousin  often  lectures  me.  I  have  rather 
peculiar  theories  on  the  subject  of  infantine  education. 
I  like  to  give  plenty  of  scope  to  children.  Here  comes 
one  of  your  best  friends,"  as  a  tall,  respectable-looking 
woman,  with  a  singularly  placid  and  prepossessing  face, 
came  quietly  towards  them.  But  Stella  only  tugged  at 
her  father's  hand. 

"  Ain't  got  no  bestest  friends,  Boy,"  she  observed 
crossly. 

"  Have  you  not,  my  star ;  that's  bad  hearing."  Then 
he  set  Cyril  on  his  feet.  "  Now  then,  once,  twice,  three 
times,  and  away  " ;  and,  as  he  clapped  his  hands,  the 
children  flew  down  the  path  and  into  Peace's  outstretched 
arms. 

"  I  wonned  the  race,"  exclaimed  Stella  triumphantly, 
as  Peace  tucked  her  under  one  vigorous  arm  and  the 
boy  under  the  other,  while  a  submerged  voice  gasped 
out,  "  I  wonned  it  too,  Paul." 

"  That  always  fetches  them,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carlyon, 
as  we  walked  towards  the  church.  "  What  do  you  think 
of  their  nurse.  Miss  Darnell?  To  me  she  has  one  of 
the  most  restful  faces  I  have  even  seen;  it  certainly 
endorses  her  name." 

"  Is  Peace  her  Christian  or  surname  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Her  Christian  name — Peace  Stephenson.  She  is  a 
survival  of  an  old  Puritan  family — Primitive  Methodist 
I  believe  her  father  called  himself;  and  all  his  five 
daughters  had  quaint  names,  savouring  of  Bunyan  and 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress.    I  know  there  is  a  Prudence  and 

114 


FUNERALS  AND  ANGELS 

Patience,  as  well  as  Charity,  and  I  believe  there  is  a 
Discretion  too,  though  they  abbreviated  it  for  common 
use.  Peace  is  the  youngest,  and  I  have  thanked  God 
for  her  from  the  day  she  entered  my  house." 

I  thought  it  nice  of  Mr.  Carlyon  to  say  that  and  not 
to  be  ashamed  of  owning  his  blessings ;  people  so  often 
slur  them  over  and  gobble  up  their  good  things  like 
greedy  children  who  forget  their  grace;  and  indeed  I 
had  been  much  impressed  by  the  pleasant  comeliness  of 
Peace  as  she  stood  so  patiently  in  the  sunshine  waiting 
for  her  wayward  charges,  and  the  manner  in  which  she 
opened  her  arms  and  took  the  little  panting  creatures  to 
her  heart  made  me  feel  that  it  was  no  hireling's  love  that 
was  lavished  on  them. 

We  went  into  the  little  church,  for  Sydney  wanted 
me  to  see  the  new  alms-bags  that  she  and  Cousin  Yvonne 
had  worked  for  Easter;  and  as  we  stood  there  in  the 
vestry  we  had  quite  a  nice  little  talk  about  some  old 
people  in  whom  I  was  interested,  and  I  soon  discovered 
that  Mr.  Carlyon  was  interested  too.  He  said  he  liked 
the  people  very  much,  they  had  received  him  so  kindly. 
"  They  seemed  to  know  I  had  had  trouble,"  he  continued 
simply,  "  and  indeed  their  homely  sympathy  was  very 
healing " ;  and  then  a  sad  look  came  into  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  was  thinking  of  the  poor  young  wife  and 
mother  who  lay  in  her  quiet  grave  so  many  miles  away. 

Sydney  had  left  us  a  few  minutes  previously,  and  we 
found  her  in  the  porch  talking  to  Thurston  Wilde.  He 
had  left  his  dog  in  the  road  outside,  and  had  followed  us ; 
he  looked  handsomer  than  ever,  although  he  had  rather 
a  worried  expression.  I  think  he  was  airing  some  griev- 
ance to  Sydney,  for  as  we  all  walked  down  the  church- 
yard he  dropped  purposely  behind  and  kept  beside  her. 
"  Gran  is  bent  on  having  them,  but  it  will  spoil  the  even- 

"5 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

ing,"  I  heard  him  say ;  but  Sydney  said  something  sooth- 
ing in  reply. 

As  Mr.  Carlyon  was  unlatching  the  gate  into  the 
Vicarage  garden,  for  he  wished  us  to  go  out  that  way, 
we  saw  the  children  kissing  their  hands  to  us  from  an 
upper  window. 

"  Miss  Damell,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  I  am  afraid  my 
little  people  shocked  you  just  now ;  but  ever  since  she 
could  speak  Stella  has  called  me  Boy,  and  latterly  Cyril 
persists  in  addressing  me  as  Paul.  I  think  he  finds  father 
rather  difficult  to  enunciate,  but  they  are  such  babies, 
and  somehow  I  like  it." 

I  only  smiled  in  answer  to  this.  Mr.  Carlyon  was  a 
stranger,  and  it  would  be  hardly  becoming  in  me  to  argue 
on  such  a  personal  matter.  I  was  rather  amused  at  his 
earnestness  and  desire  to  know  my  opinion,  but  I  pre- 
ferred to  remain  silent. 

"  You  do  not  agree  with  me,"  he  persisted,  and  I  was 
rather  confused  by  his  keen  look.  I  saw  then  that  he 
was  determined  to  have  an  answer. 

"  I  think  the  name  of  father  is  so  beautiful,"  I  fal- 
tered. For  all  my  life  I  had  never  called  father  by  any 
other  name,  though  my  childlike  tongue  could  hardly 
lisp  it. 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  he  returned  gravely,  and  I 
really  believe  he  read  my  thoughts  at  that  moment. 
"  You  are  afraid  that  my  little  ones  will  have  less  rever- 
ence than  love ;  but  I  believe  and  hope  that  this  will  not 
be  the  case ;  when  my  boy  is  older  I  shall  teach  him  to 
say  father,  and  Stella  will  soon  follow  his  example. 
They  are  the  most  original  pair  you  ever  saw,"  with 
quite  a  boyish  laugh.  "If  you  could  only  hear  one  of 
our  Sunday  talks !  " 

I  was  about  to  tell  Mr.  Carlyon  about  the  tramp's 
n6 


FUNERALS  AND  ANGELS 

grave,  but  Sydney  ran  after  us.  She  was  alone,  and 
looked  a  little  flushed  as  though  she  had  hurried. 

"  You  must  really  make  haste,  Githa,"  she  observed, 
"  or  we  shall  be  late  for  luncheon."  And  then  we  bade 
Mr.  Carlyon  good-bye. 

The  children  were  still  waving  to  us,  and  Stella  had 
a  black  kitten  cuddled  up  to  her  fat  little  neck.  We 
talked  about  them  most  of  the  way  to  Prior's  Cot,  and 
I  told  Sydney  how  embarrassed  I  had  been  when  the 
vicar  had  asked  my  opinion. 

"  I  fancy  people  have  been  speaking  to  him  about  it," 
returned  Sydney,  "  and  that  has  made  him  a  little  sensi- 
tive. I  am  quite  sure  Lady  Wilde  has ;  she  is  always 
ready  to  give  her  opinion  on  every  subject,  and  she  never 
beats  about  the  bush." 

"  No,  she  can  make  herself  extremely  disagreeable 
sometimes.  But  I  do  hope,  Sydney,  that  Mr.  Carlyon 
did  not  mind  what  I  said." 

"  My  dear  child,  how  could  he !  After  all,  you  are 
right,  and  there  is  nothing  sweeter  than  the  dear  old 
names  of  father  and  mother." 

"  But  he  seemed  as  though  he  read  my  thoughts, 
Sydney." 

"  Well,  dear,  you  have  a  very  tell-tale  face.  I  can 
often  guess  what  you  are  thinking  about  before  you  have 
said  a  word.  Mr.  Carlyon  was  afraid  you  were  just  a 
little  shocked,  so  he  was  anxious  to  explain  matters. 
Bless  their  little  hearts,  they  are  only  babies,  and  I  think 
they  are  just  adorable  with  him." 

And  then  as  we  walked  up  the  lane  the  church  clock 
chimed  the  half-hour,  and  we  both  involuntarily  quick- 
ened our  steps. 


117 


XII 

ST.   HELEN'S  TOWERS 


Hasten  [to  examine]  thy  own  ruling  faculty  and  that  of  the 
universe  and  that  of  thy  neighbour;  thy  own,  that  thou  mayst 
make  it  just;  and  that  of  the  universe,  that  thou  mayst  remember 
of  what  thou  art  a  part ;  and  that  of  thy  neighbour,  that  thou 
mayst  know  whether  he  has  acted  ignorantly  or  with  knowledge, 
and  that  thou  mayst  also  consider  that  his  ruling  faculty  is 
akin  to  thine. — M.  Aurelius  Antoninus. 

We  were  half-way  through  luncheon  when  I  suddenly 
remembered  that  I  had  not  asked  Sydney  why  Thurston 
had  looked  so  worried.  She  seemed  surprised  at  my 
question,  and  coloured  a  little  as  though  she  were  unwil- 
ling to  answer  it.  "  It  was  about  the  Etheridges,"  she 
returned  slowly ;  "  they  are  back  at  the  Mount,  and  Lady 
Wilde  has  invited  Colonel  Etheridge  and  Rhona  to  dinner 
to-night — Mrs.  Etheridge  never  goes  out  in  the  evening." 
I  was  quite  aware  of  this.  Mrs.  Etheridge  was  a 
chronic  invalid ;  but  of  late  years  the  family  had  spent 
the  winter  abroad  and  were  very  little  at  Bayfield.  They 
were  extremely  wealthy  people,  and  Rhona,  being  an 
only  child,  would  be  quite  an  heiress.  Lady  Wilde  had 
always  been  on  intimate  terms  with  the  Etheridges,  and 
she  took  a  great  deal  of  notice  of  Rhona.  She  was  a 
nice  ladylike  girl,  and  Sydney  and  I  both  liked  her,  but 
Thurston  always  seemed  indifferent  to  her  society.  She 
was  certainly  not  at  all  pretty,  she  was  rather  colourless 
and   insignificant   in   appearance,   though  by   no   means 

ii8 


ST.  HELEN'S  TOWERS 

plain,  but  Thurston,  who  had  his  own  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  genuine  beauty,  always  said  that  she  was  insipid. 

"  It  is  silly  of  Thurston  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  a 
trifle,"  went  on  Sydney,  "  but  he  will  have  it  the  evening 
will  be  spoiled ;  he  was  quite  out  of  humour  about  it, 
foolish  fellow !  " 

I  guessed  the  reason  of  Thurston's  vexation  when  I 
heard  this.  Lady  Wilde  would  insist  on  Rhona  sitting 
beside  her  grandson,  and  she  was  too  quiet  to  be  an  amus- 
ing companion ;  probably  he  had  hoped  for  Sydney's 
society  during  the  long  elaborate  dinner. 

He  and  Sydney  were  great  friends.  I  was  still  very 
much  interested  in  my  old  playmate,  but  I  had  long  ago 
got  rid  of  my  childish  jealousy,  and  had  resigned  myself 
to  the  knowledge  that  Sydney  was  the  prime  favourite. 

Thurston  was  always  very  nice  to  me,  and  I  secretly 
admired  him,  for  he  was  an  exceedingly  good-looking 
fellow ;  but  my  feelings  for  him  were  purely  platonic 
and  sisterly.  I  liked  to  be  with  him,  even  though  I  saw 
how  ready  he  was  to  turn  from  me  to  Sydney.  I  knew 
that  he  told  her  all  his  troubles  and  grievances,  and  that 
her  sympathy  never  failed  him.  Circumstances  were 
always  throwing  them  together,  and  a  day  rarely  passed 
that  they  did  not  meet  either  at  Prior's  Cot  or  St.  Helen's. 
Lady  Wilde  thought  us  all  children,  and  I  do  not  think  it 
entered  her  head  that  any  troublesome  complications 
could  arise  from  the  situation.  She  was  not  a  clever 
woman,  but  there  were  times  when  her  denseness  sur- 
prised me.  She  was  extremely  injudicious  and  short- 
sighted with  regard  to  her  grandson.  Thurston  had  not 
been  to  any  public  school  or  University ;  he  had  been 
placed  with  a  tutor,  where  he  had  only  had  the  com- 
panionship of  half-a-dozen  boys  of  bis  own  age;  and 
though  he  was  fairly  well  educated  as  far  as  classical 

119 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

studies  went,  he  was  entirely  deficient  in  the  wider 
knowledge  of  human  nature  and  the  world,  and,  as 
Cousin  Yvonne  once  expressed  it,  "  very  badly  equipped 
for  the  battle  of  life." 

Thurston  was  just  one-and-twenty.  His  education  had 
been  completed  by  a  few  months  spent  on  the  Continent 
under  the  care  of  an  elderly  tutor,  who  did  his  best  to 
improve  his  pupil's  mind,  but  who  certainly  failed  to 
interest  him;  and  Thurston  returned  home  satiated  with 
mountains  and  lakes  and  churches  and  picture-galleries, 
and  utterly  bored  and  blase, 

"  What  was  the  good  of  mountains  if  one  was  not 
allowed  to  climb  them,"  he  said  once  to  me.  "  I  give  you 
my  word,  Githa,  I  felt  like  a  tame  bear  being  lugged 
about  by  my  keeper,  only  I  did  not  even  dance  as  poor 
Bruin  does  in  the  market-place.  I  daresay,"  he  con- 
tinued gloomily,  "  that  Sydney  is  right  and  that  old 
Cathcart  was  not  such  a  bad  sort  of  fellow  after  all ;  but 
you  see  a  cub  needs  the  companionship  of  other  cubs  to 
make  things  lively,"  and  Thurston  gave  vent  to  a  bitter 
little  laugh. 

Sydney  had  to  practise  her  singing  after  luncheon, 
so  Cousin  Yvonne  and  I  made  ourselves  cosy  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. She  lay  back  in  her  easy-chair,  idle  for  once, 
and  bade  me  a  little  abruptly  talk  to  her. 

"  I  am  in  a  lazy  mood  this  afternoon,"  she  observed, 
"  so  you  may  talk  of  what  you  will — cabbages  or  kings 
— there  is  a  wide  range  of  subjects  between  the  two." 

I  laughed  at  this ;  but  my  head  was  just  then  full  of 
Thurston's  grievance  about  the  Etheridges,  so  I  com- 
menced with  him. 

"  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  remarked,  "  I  do  so  wonder  what 
Thurston  will  do  with  himself  now  his  education  is 
finished ;  there  is  so  little  going  on  at  Bayfield." 

120 


ST.  HELEN'S  TOWERS 

"  It  is  odd  that  you  should  say  that,"  she  returned, 
smiHng,  "  for  Sydney  and  I  were  talking  on  that  very 
subject  the  other  night.  It  does  seem  such  a  grievous 
pity  that  Lady  Wilde  will  not  allow  him  to  go  to  Oxford." 

"  But  what  is  her  reason  ?  "  I  asked  brusquely,  for  my 
private  opinion  of  Lady  Wilde  was  not  specially  flatter- 
ing, and  moreover  I  had  spoken  of  her  to  Sydney  as  an 
opinionative,  crotchety  old  woman.  Then  Cousin  Yvonne 
looked  rather  grave. 

"  Her  reason  is  rather  a  sad  one,  Githa,  and  although 
I  do  not  in  the  least  approve  of  the  way  she  has  brought 
up  Thurston,  I  can  understand  her  point  of  view. 

"Lady  Wilde  has  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  her 
life.  I  believe  her  married  life  was  not  happy.  Sir 
Joseph — he  was  only  knighted  for  gallantry — certainly 
married  her  for  her  money,  and  though  he  tried  to  hide 
this  from  her  she  soon  found  it  out  for  herself.  It  was 
a  very  ill-assorted  union,  and  he  grew  more  indifferent 
and  more  neglectful  of  her  comfort  every  year,  and  so 
the  breach  widened." 

I  had  no  idea  of  this,  but  I  remained  silent,  and  Cousin 
Yvonne  went  on.  "  They  had  only  one  son,  Thurston's 
father.  His  name  was  Manley,  and  he  was  quite  as  good- 
looking  as  his  son,  though  not  so  dark ;  but  Thurston 
takes  after  his  mother.  Lady  Wilde  was  bound  up  in 
her  son ;  she  literally  worshipped  the  ground  he  walked 
on ;  nothing  was  too  good  for  him ;  he  must  have  an 
education  fit  for  a  prince.  He  was  sent  to  Eton,  and 
then  to  Christ  Church,  where  he  got  into  a  bad  set.  I 
know  Sir  Joseph  paid  his  debts  more  than  once ;  and  then 
something  happened,  I  do  not  know  what,  and  he  had 
to  leave  Oxford  in  disgrace.  I  heard  all  this  from  my 
old  friend  Mr.  Dennison,  for  Lady  Wilde  has  never  men- 
tioned either  her  husband  or  son  to  me." 

121 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  She  has  had  trouble,"  I  returned  rather  grudgingly, 

"But  I  have  not  finished  my  story  yet,  Githa.  When 
his  university  career  came  to  an  end,  Manley  was  sent 
round  the  world  with  a  tutor.  Sir  Joseph  thought  a 
year's  absence  would  be  wise  under  the  circumstances, 
and  that  he  would  come  home  and  start  afresh. 

"  Lady  Wilde  was  very  loath  to  part  with  him,  and 
Sir  Joseph  had  hard  work  to  persuade  her  to  give  her 
consent.  She  told  Mr.  Dennison  that  she  had  a  presenti- 
ment that  some  evil  would  come  to  him.  But  she  had 
great  confidence  in  the  tutor  that  had  been  selected,  and 
I  believe  that  neither  she  nor  Sir  Joseph  ever  blamed 
him  for  what  happened. 

"  It  was  in  America  that  they  fell  in  with  a  young 
Spanish  lady  who  was  travelling  with  her  brother.  The 
tutor,  Mr.  Tressiter,  found  out  that  they  belonged  to  a 
dramatic  company.  The  brother  was  in  bad  health,  and 
the  sister,  who  was  apparently  devoted  to  the  invalid,  was 
extremely  handsome.  But  her  manner  was  so  coquettish 
and  so  free  and  easy  that  Mr.  Tressiter  grew  alarmed  for 
his  pupil,  who  he  saw  was  strongly  attracted  by  the  young 
actress's  beauty. 

"  He  determined  to  leave  the  hotel  at  once,  but  the 
young  man  flatly  refused  to  accompany  him.  There 
was  more  than  one  uncomfortable  scene  before  he  could 
induce  his  contumacious  pupil  to  finish  his  packing,  but 
he  yielded  at  last,  and  their  departure  was  arranged  for 
the  next  morning. 

"  You  may  imagine  Mr.  Tressiter's  feeling  when 
Manley  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance  the  next  morning. 
Senorita  Bianca  and  her  brother  had  left  the  previous 
afternoon,  and  it  was  far  too  probable  that  the  misguided 
boy  had  followed  them ;  but  so  cleverly  had  he  laid  his 
plans  that  it  was  weeks  before  his  tutor  could  find  him, 
and  then  it  was  too  late.    Bianca  had  married  him. 

122 


ST.  HELEN'S  TOWERS 

"  Mr,  Dennison  always  declared  that  the  trouble  and 
worry  killed  Sir  Joseph.  It  was  a  terrible  affair,  Githa. 
Bianca  was  an  impossible  woman,  and,  though  Manley 
brought  her  to  England,  Lady  Wilde  refused  to  see  her, 
and  it  was  only  after  her  death  that  Manley  was  allowed 
to  return  home  with  his  child. 

"  He  was  in  bad  health  then,  a  perfect  wreck,  and 
he  did  not  live  long.  On  his  deathbed  he  besought  his 
mother  to  be  good  to  the  boy.  '  The  little  chap  will  make 
up  to  you  for  all  the  trouble  I  have  given  you,  mother,' 
he  said,  and  these  were  his  last  words." 

"  Oh  dear,"  I  sighed  as  Cousin  Yvonne  paused. 
"  After  all,  I  shall  have  to  be  sorry  for  the  poor  old 
thing." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  we  must  all  feel  for  her.  I  fully 
believe  that  all  Lady  Wilde's  mistakes  are  due  to  over- 
anxiety  on  Thurston's  account.  The  poor  lad  is  paying 
dearly  for  his  father's  errors.  She  is  almost  afraid  to 
trust  him  out  of  her  sight.  She  would  not  hear  of  Eton 
or  Harrow,  and  no  one  but  Thurston  himself  dared  to 
propose  Oxford  once,  and  then  she  refused  to  listen  to 
him." 

"  But,  Cousin  Yvonne,  what  will  he  do  with  his  life? 
Thurston  told  Sydney  once  that  he  wanted  to  go  into 
the  army  or  enter  some  profession,  but  that  his  grand- 
mother would  not  hear  of  it.  She  only  tells  him  that 
after  her  death  he  will  be  very  rich,  and  that  he  will  find 
plenty  to  do  in  managing  his  property.  But,  as  Thurston 
says,  she  is  so  hale  and  hearty  that  she  may  live  until 
she  is  ninety." 

"  Yes,  it  is  extremely  short-sighted  of  her,"  returned 
Cousin  Yvonne.  "  I  should  have  thought  Lady  Wilde 
would  have  remembered  her  motto,  *  Satan  finds  some 
mischief  still  for  idle  hands  to  do.'  ■ ' 

123 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Thurston  is  not  exactly  idle,"  I  observed,  for  I  felt 
bound  to  defend  my  playmate ;  "  he  boats  and  rides  and 
shoots,  and  manages  to  enjoy  life." 

"  A  young  man  will  always  do  that,"  returned  Cousin 
Yvonne  rather  gravely ;  "  and  I  do  not  deny  that  Lady 
Wilde  provides  for  him  very  generously,  and  that  as  far 
as  creature  comforts  are  concerned  he  has  everything 
he  wants.  But  how  long  do  you  suppose  that  a  fine 
young  fellow  like  Thurston  will  be  content  to  pass  his 
existence  at  his  grannie's  apron-strings?  By  and  by 
there  will  be  friction  or  open  mutiny,  and  it  will  be  the 
survival  of  the  fittest."  But  I  had  no  opportunity  to 
answer,  for  Sydney  came  into  the  room,  and  Cousin 
Yvonne  rather  abruptly  changed  the  subject. 

I  thought  I  had  never  seen  Sydney  look  so  sweet  as 
she  did  that  evening;  it  seemed  to  me  that  father's 
favourite  word  "  bonnie  "  just  suited  her.  Without  being 
exactly  handsome,  she  was  exceedingly  attractive ;  her 
fresh,  healthy  complexion,  the  clear  brightness  of  her 
eyes,  and  the  engaging  frankness  of  her  expression 
always  charmed  people. 

I  was  rather  sorry  that  Cousin  Yvonne  wore  her 
favourite  grey  satin  that  evening ;  it  did  not  suit  her  wan 
looks,  and  made  her  look  dim  and  shadowy.  She  was 
always  so  beautifully  dressed,  but  to-night  she  needed 
some  relief.  I  remarked  on  this  to  Sydney  afterwards, 
for  no  one  ever  ventured  to  criticise  Cousin  Yvonne's 
dress  in  her  presence.  "  If  she  had  only  worn  black," 
I  said  discontentedly ;  "  but  that  cold  shimmering  grey 
dress  makes  her  look  like  a  French  marquise  in  the 
conciergerie  waiting  to  hear  her  name  read  out  from  the 
death-roll."  But  Sydney  did  not  laugh ;  indeed,  she 
seemed  a  little  shocked  at  the  ghastly  comparison. 

"  I  was  sorry  too,"  she  said  simply ;  "  but  somehow, 
124 


ST.  HELEN'S  TOWERS 

Githa,  she  cannot  help  looking  beautiful  in  any  gown.  I 
am  afraid  she  felt  ill  to-night,  for  she  was  so  very  quiet." 

St.  Helen's  Towers  was  a  big  white  castellated  house, 
and  in  my  opinion  it  was  rather  too  large  and  straggling 
for  comfort.  The  person  who  built  it  evidently  cared 
for  spacious  apartments.  Some  of  the  rooms  were 
immense,  and  in  winter  it  was  difficult  to  warm  the 
dining-room  and  library  sufficiently  for  comfort ;  and 
later  Lady  Wilde  had  used  the  breakfast-room  for  meals. 

There  were  two  large  drawing-rooms  with  folding 
doors,  which  were  always  thrown  open  when  Lady  Wilde 
had  company.  They  were  magnificently  proportioned 
rooms,  but  the  arrangement  of  the  furniture  never  pleased 
me.  Lady  Wilde  was  early  Victorian  in  her  taste,  and 
being  very  conservative  she  had  not  thought  fit  to 
adapt  herself  to  modern  ideas.  She  delighted  in  heavy 
mahogany,  and  crimson  flock-papers  which  absorbed 
light,  and  big  mirrors  with  massive  gilt  frames ;  silver 
tables  and  bric-a-brac  she  classified  as  rubbish. 

When  wc  entered  the  drawing-room  at  St.  Helen's, 
we  found  Lady  Wilde  as  usual  seated  in  her  throne-like 
chair  beside  the  fire,  talking  to  Colonel  Etheridge.  She 
was  a  big,  heavy-looking  woman,  and  had  never  been 
good-looking  in  her  life,  and  no  amount  of  pains  on  her 
excellent  maid's  part  could  make  her  look  as  though  her 
clothes  belonged  to  her.  She  was  always  handsomely 
dressed  in  either  silk,  satin,  or  velvet,  and  she  was  fond 
of  jewellery — the  massive  sort  which  modern  taste  dis- 
cards. She  was  a  very  plain  woman,  and  her  heavy 
jaws  gave  her  a  stern  appearance;  but  when  she  spoke  or 
smiled  her  expression  was  less  forbidding,  though  her 
voice  was  naturally  harsh. 

She  welcomed  me  very  kindly,  and  then  introduced 
Colonel   Etheridge ;  but  he  told  her  that  we  had   met 

U5 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

before,  though  he  owned  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in 
recognising  me.  He  was  a  tall,  grave-looking  man  with 
a  bushy  grey  moustache,  but  he  could  make  himself 
very  pleasant. 

I  left  him  to  talk  to  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  crossed  the 
room  to  join  Rhona  and  Sydney,  who  were  seated  side 
by  side  on  the  big  Chesterfield  couch.  They  made  room 
for  me  between  them,  and  Thurston  came  up  and  chatted 
to  us. 

I  thought  Rhona  looked  rather  nice  that  evening; 
she  was  very  becomingly  dressed,  and  she  seemed  less 
colourless  than  usual.  She  had  rather  pretty  eyes,  though 
they  were  small ;  her  fair  hair  was  very  thick  and  abun- 
dant, and  it  was  arranged  with  more  care  than  usual. 

Thurston  told  us  that  his  grannie  was  fidgeting 
because  the  vicar  was  late,  but  he  came  in  the  next 
moment  and  apologised  for  the  unavoidable  delay.  He 
had  been  called  to  baptize  a  dying  infant,  he  said  rather 
gravely,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  me.  I  was  rather  sur- 
prised that  I  should  take  precedence  of  Rhona,  who, 
being  an  heiress,  was  rather  a  person  to  be  considered, 
but  it  was  evident  that  Lady  Wilde  had  her  own  ideas. 

Thurston  had  taken  in  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  Rhona 
was  on  his  other  hand,  with  Sydney  beyond  her.  Lady 
Wilde  never  talked  much  at  dinner,  and  Sydney  would 
be  expected  to  cater  for  Colonel  Etheridge's  entertain- 
ment. He  was  a  little  ponderous,  and  given  to  lay  down 
the  law  in  rather  a  sledge-hammer  fashion,  and  Sydney 
flashed  a  naughty  little  look  at  me — as  she  unfolded  her 
napkin — as  though  she  would  willingly  have  changed 
places. 


126 


XIII 

STELLA  GIVES  ME  A  NEW  NAME 


Shall  one  like  me 
Judge  hearts  like  yours? 

Trench. 

Things  done  well 
And  with   a  care,   exempt  themselves   from  fear. 

Shakespeare. 

Shutting  out  Fear,  with  all  the  strength  of  Hope. 

Browning. 

I  NEVER  enjoyed  an  evening  at  St.  Helen's  Towers  as  I 
did  that  night. 

During  dinner  I  had  a  great  deal  of  interesting  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Carlyon.  We  discussed  not  only  the 
latest  work  of  fiction,  but  a  variety  of  other  topics.  I 
told  him  about  the  conversation  classes,  which  seemed  to 
impress  him  a  good  deal,  and  I  also  mentioned  that  Miss 
Redford  and  I  were  attending  some  rather  advanced 
lectures  on  German  literature.  He  seemed  to  have  studied 
the  subject  thoroughly,  and  when  I  made  a  remark  to  this 
effect,  he  told  me  that  he  had  spent  eight  months  at 
Heidelberg  after  he  had  left  Oxford. 

He  was  evidently  a  well-read,  thoughtful  man,  but 
I  found  no  difficulty  in  talking  to  him ;  daily  intercourse 
with  a  clever,  cultivated  woman  like  Miss  Redford  had 
been  an  untold  advantage  to  me,  and  for  the  last  year  or 
two  father  had  conversed  with  me  on  all  the  subjects 

127 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

that  interested  him.  He  called  it  "  forming  my  mind," 
but  I  think  that  he  liked  to  feel  that  I  was  in  touch  with 
him  in  everything. 

I  do  not  remember  how  it  was  that  I  found  myself 
discoursing  on  the  merits  and  beauties  of  my  mare  Bab, 
it  was  probably  because  he  had  admired  my  little  York- 
shire terrier  Roy ;  he  told  me  that  he  was  devoted  to 
dogs  and  horses,  and  that  in  his  palmy  days  he  had  been 
very  fond  of  riding  and  driving.  "  But  a  poor  vicar 
must  cut  his  coat  to  suit  his  cloth,"  he  went  on  with  a 
whimsical  smile,  "  so  I  content  myself  with  boating." 
But  I  took  this  remark  with  a  grain  of  salt,  for  Cousin 
Yvonne  had  told  me  that  Mr.  Carlyon  had  private  means 
and  was  not  dependent  on  his  living.  "  Of  course  his 
wife  brought  him  nothing,"  she  had  added. 

I  could  not  help  noticing  how  quiet  Cousin  Yvonne 
was ;  she  was  generally  the  leader  of  the  conversation, 
but  to-night  she  contented  herself  with  an  occasional 
remark  to  Thurston  and  Rhona. 

Thurston  was  unusually  sedate ;  he  was  evidently 
trying  his  best  to  discharge  his  social  duties ;  but  I  could 
not  help  noticing  that  while  he  talked  to  Rhona  his 
eyes  often  wandered  to  Sydney's  bright  face,  and  that 
every  now  and  then  he  seemed  as  though  he  were  listen- 
ing to  her  animated  voice.  Rhona  was  too  quiet  and 
diffident  to  interest  him.  She  was  one  of  those  shy  people 
who  only  appear  to  advantage  in  their  own  homes. 
Amiable  and  lovable  as  I  knew  her  to  be,  I  could  quite 
understand  Thurston's  indifference.  His  nature  was 
somewhat  melancholic,  and  he  needed  to  be  roused  and 
amused ;  and,  with  all  her  gentleness,  Rhona  was  rather 
prim  and  uninteresting. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  dinner  that  Mr.  Carlyon 
began  speaking  of  his  children. 

128 


STELLA  GIVES  ME  A  NEW  NAME 

"  Oh,  by  the  bye,"  he  observed,  somewhat  abruptly, 
"  I  have  never  given  you  Stella's  message.  She  wants 
you  and  Miss  Herbert  to  come  to  nursery  tea  to-morrow 
afternoon  " ;  but,  before  I  could  reply,  Sydney,  who  had 
heard  her  name  mentioned,  leaned  forward  rather  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  Githa,"  she  said  in  her  bright  way,  "  you  must 
not  think  of  refusing  Stella's  invitation ;  you  have  no 
idea  how  delightful  those  nursery  teas  are !  " 

"  But  are  you  sure  that  Stella  really  wished  me  to 
come  ?  "  I  returned  in  a  hesitating  voice,  for  I  was  not  at 
all  certain  what  Cousin  Yvonne  would  think  of  such  an 
unconventional  proceeding. 

"  Should  I  give  you  Stella's  words  verbatim.  Miss 
Darnell,"  he  said  with  a  pleasant  smile.  "  '  I  want  Her- 
berts and  "  the  big  girl  what  learns  lessons  "  to  come  to 
tea  to-morrow  with  me  and  Cyril  and  Peace — will  you  ask 
them,  Boy  ?  '  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  my  little  girl's 
invitation,"  he  continued.  "  Unfortunately  I  have  an 
engagement  in  town,  so  I  am  not  likely  to  be  on  the 
premises."  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Carlyon  said  this  with  a 
purpose ;  but,  as  I  knew  we  had  no  engagement  for  the 
next  day,  and  Sydney  seemed  willing,  I  accepted  Stella's 
invitation  without  a  scruple.  I  found  out  afterwards 
that  Sydney  had  been  there  for  tea  two  or  three  times, 
and  that  nursery  teas  at  the  Vicarage  were  quite  an  insti- 
tution, even  Rhona  had  been  once  invited. 

"  Of  course,  one  never  sees  Mr.  Carlyon,"  observed 
Sydney;  "even  if  he  is  in  the  house  he  would  never 
think  of  intruding.  I  love  Stella's  tea-parties;  Peace 
always  makes  one  so  comfortable,  and  the  twins  are  such 
darlings." 

After  dinner  Sydney  and  I  sang.  There  were  one 
or  two  ducts  that  we  had  practised  together,  though 
there  had  been  no  opportunity  of  trying  them  over,  but 
P  129 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

they  seemed  to  go  very  well.  I  loved  to  sing  with  Sydney, 
she  had  such  a  delightful  voice,  so  strong  and  sweet,  and 
it  seemed  to  carry  mine  with  it.  Singing  was  a  perfect 
joy  to  Sydney.  It  seemed  as  natural  for  her  to  sing 
as  it  was  for  a  thrush  to  flute  its  delicious  melody  in 
the  early  summer. 

I  knew  Rhona  was  taking  violin  lessons,  but  she  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  play,  though  I  believe  she  could 
have  acquitted  herself  very  creditably,  but  the  mere  idea 
threw  her  into  a  perfect  agony  of  shyness. 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me !  please  do  not  let  father  tease 
me !  "  I  heard  her  say  to  Thurston  in  such  an  imploring 
way ;  and  when  we  had  finished  our  duet,  and  I  had  sat 
down  beside  her,  she  sighed  in  quite  a  pathetic  manner. 

"  Oh  how  beautifully  you  both  sing !  "  she  exclaimed 
almost  plaintively. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  comparison  between  us,"  I  returned. 
"  Sydney  sings  far  better  than  I,"  which  was  certainly 
the  truth,  and  I  never  cared  to  sing  a  solo  after  her. 

"  All  the  same,  you  have  a  pretty  voice,  Githa,"  she 
sighed,  "  and  it  was  delightful  to  listen  to  you  both.  My 
violin-playing  will  never  give  such  pleasure ;  besides, 
I  am  too  nervous  to  play  in  public." 

That  was  the  worst  of  Rhona,  she  never  would  make 
the  best  of  herself.  She  had  had  every  advantage  that 
money  could  give ;  she  had  had  the  best  masters ;  and 
had  had  lessons  in  Dresden  and  Florence,  and  I  should 
be  afraid  to  state  the  price  of  her  violin ;  and  she  really 
played  with  a  great  deal  of  delicacy  and  feeling;  and  I 
could  well  understand  Colonel  Etheridge's  disappoint- 
ment when  she  refused  to  take  her  part  in  the  evening's 
entertainment. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  I  heard  him  say  to  Lady  Wilde.    "  The 


130 


STELLA  GIVES  ME  A  NEW  NAME 

child  inherits  her  nervousness  from  her  mother " ;  but 
Lady  Wilde's  lip  curled  a  little  sarcastically. 

Nerves  were  evidently  not  early  Victorian,  and  she 
called  them  by  another  name. 

"  The  young  ladies  of  the  present  day  are  extremely 
fanciful,"  she  observed  in  a  voice  audible  to  us  both ; 
and  poor  Rhona  grew  very  pink  and  seemed  quite  dis- 
tressed. 

"  Lady  Wilde  is  vexed  because  I  do  not  play,"  she 
whispered.  "  and  father  will  lecture  me  when  we  get 
home,  and  then  mother  will  be  worried  " ;  for  although 
Rhona  was  an  only  child  and  her  parents  were  devoted  to 
her,  her  life  was  not  always  easy. 

Colonel  Etheridge  was  rather  a  martinet ;  he  was 
fussy  and  opinionative,  and  could  put  his  foot  down 
very  heavily  when  anything  displeased  him ;  and  Mrs. 
Etheridge's  ill-health  made  her  at  times  rather  depress- 
ing, although  she  was  a  sweet  woman  in  her  way.  It 
was  not  the  most  healthy  atmosphere  for  a  girl  of  Rhona's 
temperament,  though  both  Sydney  and  I  knew  how 
much  she  strove  to  be  a  comfort  to  her  parents  and  to 
satisfy  them. 

Rhona  would  have  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour ;  the 
lecture  would  simply  crush  her  and  do  no  good.  If  I 
had  had  her  quietly  to  myself  I  should  have  found  plenty 
to  say  to  her,  but  I  only  rehearsed  my  little  speech  for 
my  own  benefit  in  my  bedroom. 

"  It  is  not  shyness  so  much  as  self-consciousness, 
Rhona,"  that  is  what  I  longed  to  say.  "  You  are  always 
thinking  about  yourself  and  your  failures ;  you  never 
think  about  anything  else.  You  ought  to  have  considered 
your  father  and  tried  to  play,  even  though  your  hands 
were  as  cold  as  ice  and  your  heart  was  thumping.  What 
would  it  matter  if  you  had  broken  down.     You  would 

I3i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

have  made  the  attempt,  and  we  should  have  been  pleased 
v^ith  you."  But  there  was  no  opportunity  to  deliver  my 
bracing  little  speech,  for  Colonel  Etheridge  carried  her 
off ;  and  then  Cousin  Yvonne  said  it  was  getting  late,  and 
that  broke  up  the  party. 

Mr.  Carlyon  and  Thurston  put  us  into  the  carriage, 
and  as  we  were  about  to  drive  off  he  said  to  me,  "  Am 
I  to  tell  my  little  Star  that  you  and  Miss  Herbert  will 
come  to-morrow  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  certainly,  we  shall  be  delighted  " ;  and  then 
he  smiled  and  said  good-night. 

"  His  little  Star,"  how  quaint  and  pretty  it  sounded ! 
Cousin  Yvonne  responded  to  this  thought,  for  she  said 
with  a  little  sigh,  "  It  is  better  to  walk  in  the  starlight 
if  one  cannot  have  the  sunshine  " ;  and  then  she  added, 
"  Mr.  Carlyon  would  be  very  lonely  but  for  those 
children." 

Sydney  and  I  spent  most  of  the  next  morning  prac- 
tising over  duets  together,  and  Cousin  Yvonne  sat  at  her 
needlework  and  listened  to  us ;  but  more  than  once  I 
saw  her  lay  down  her  embroidery  and  gaze  out  of  the 
window  with  a  strange,  abstracted  look,  as  though  she 
were  recalling  past  troubles. 

In  the  afternoon  we  went  over  to  the  Vicarage  and 
to  the  twins'  intense  delight  we  took  Roy  with  us.  The 
nursery  was  a  pleasant  room.  Peace,  who  was  arranging 
the  tea-table,  received  us  very  kindly.  The  children  wel- 
comed us  in  a  most  demonstrative  fashion,  and  before 
many  minutes  were  over  we  were  all  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor  together,  with  Roy  in  the  middle. 

During  tea-time  the  twins'  behaviour  was  most  exem- 
plary. Peace  evidently  kept  them  in  excellent  order.  Cyril 
sat  beaming  on  us  as  he  ate  his  bread-and-butter,  and 
Stella    counted    the    buns    somewhat    anxiously — "  One 

132 


STELLA  GIVES  ME  A  NEW  NAME 

each,  and  two  for  the  big  girl,*'  I  heard  her  say ;  and  once 
she  whispered  to  me  to  take  a  Httle  more  "  dooseberry 
jam,  as  Peace  would  not  mind  " ;  but  Peace,  with  much 
tact,  refrained  from  noticing  these  small  infractions  on 
the  nursery  rules.  The  moment  tea  was  over  I  was 
pushed  into  the  big  rocking-chair,  and  both  children 
clambered  up  into  my  lap,  with  Roy  on  the  top  of  them. 
To  my  dismay  Stella  began  the  subject  of  ''  dog-angels." 

"  Where  do  the  dog-angels  go?  "  she  observed,  as  she 
stroked  Roy's  silky  coat. 

"  Dog-angels !  what  on  earth  do  you  mean,  darling?  " 
asked  Sydney  in  a  puzzled  voice ;  but  Stella  turned 
pettishly  from  her  "  dear  Herberts." 

"  The  big  girl  knows,"  she  said  loftily, — "  the  good 
little  doggies  wot  die  and  are  put  in  the  ground.  There 
must  be  such  lots  and  lots  of  dog-angels,"  she  continued 
reflectively,  as  her  dimpled  hand  rested  lovingly  on  Roy's 
head.    "  Suppose  there  is  no  room  for  them." 

"  No  room  for  the  dog-angels,"  echoed  Cyril  sadly. 

Peace  smiled  as  she  carried  off  the  tea-tray.  She  was 
evidently  used  to  Stella's  queer  fancies,  but  I  was  sorely 
puzzled.  How  was  I  to  explain  to  this  infantine  philoso- 
pher that  we  had  no  warrant  for  the  belief  in  the  immor- 
tality of  animals.  It  was  useless  to  quote  the  text  which 
was  so  conclusive  to  my  own  mind,  "  Without  were 
dogs,"  which  had  destroyed  for  ever  my  cherished  hope 
of  a  reunion  in  a  future  life  with  Sultan  and  Bab  and 
Roy.  How  amused  father  had  been  with  my  theories  on 
this  subject. 

"  Well,"  observed  Stella,  as  I  remained  silent,  "  I 
suppose  only  the  grown-ups  know  " ;  which  was  a  hit  at 
me,  and  put  me  on  my  mettle  at  once. 

"  Grown-ups  do  not  know  everything,  Stella  dear," 
I  said  mildly ;  "  and  no  one  can  tell  where  the  good  little 

133 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

doggies  go  when  they  die;  that  is  why  we  must  be  so 
kind  to  them  now  and  make  them  happy,  because  they 
have  such  a  short  Hfe." 

Stella  seemed  struck  with  this  remark;  but  Cyril  had 
a  new  idea,  for  he  suddenly  took  my  chin  in  his  hand  to 
gain  my  attention. 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  name,"  he  asked  in  his  soft  drawl, 
"no  name  like  Herberts  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  I  returned,  smiling;  "my  name  is 
Githa  Darnell.  Don't  you  think  it  is  very  pretty  ?  "  But 
Cyril  shook  his  head.    Stella  interpreted  for  him  as  usual. 

"  Cyril  does  not  like  queer  names,  and — and  yours  is 
so  very  queer.  I  think  Cyril  and  me  had  better  call  you 
Girlie,  it  is  much  nicer  " ;  and  for  many  and  many  a  long 
day  I  was  "  Girlie  "  to  these  heavenly-minded  twins. 

Before  we  left  we  had  a  good  game  of  hide-and-seek, 
and  then  the  children  took  me  into  their  bedroom  to  see 
mother. 

"  They  always  do  that,  dear  little  souls,"  observed 
Peace,  who  was  mending  by  the  window,  "  and  they 
never  go  to  bed  without  a  kiss  and  good-night  to  the 
picture." 

A  curious  feeling  came  over  me  as  I  stood  before  the 
little  table  where  Lady  Doreen's  picture  was  placed.  It 
was  a  large  photograph,  handsomely  framed,  and  a  small 
vase  of  flowers  stood  in  front  of  it.  Was  it  because  of 
my  own  motherless  condition  that  the  tears  suddenly 
rose  to  my  eyes  and  I  involuntarily  pressed  the  little 
creatures  closer  to  me?  and  as  I  did  so  I  could  almost 
have  fancied  there  was  a  smile  on  the  pictured  face. 

She  must  have  been  quite  young,  this  poor  Lady 
Doreen.  There  was  something  very  sweet  and  attractive 
in  the  face,  and,  in  spite  of  her  motherhood,  a  girlish 
look,  which  was  very  pathetic  under  the  circumstances. 

134 


STELLA  GIVES  ME  A  NEW  NAME 

"  Lady  Doreen  must  have  been  much  younger  than 
her  husband,"  I  remarked  to  Cousin  Yvonne  as  I  nar- 
rated this  Httle  episode. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  she  returned,  with  a 
keen  look  at  my  flushed  face.  I  was  very  emotional,  and 
she  saw  at  once  that  I  had  been  strongly  moved.  "  She 
was  only  seven-and-twenty  when  she  died.  I  believe 
she  was  very  amiable  and  charming,  but  not  at  all  clever. 
One  cannot  help  wondering,"  she  continued  musingly, 
"  whether  Mr.  Carlyon  would  not  have  found  this  out 
for  himself  if  she  had  lived.  I  believe  they  had  no 
tastes  in  common,  that  she  never  opened  a  book  if  she 
could  help  it,  and  that  she  could  not  talk  of  anything  but 
her  children  and  domestic  matters ;  but,  as  Lady  Wilde 
said,  they  always  seemed  very  happy.  I  believe  it  was 
grief  at  her  loss  that  made  him  throw  up  a  much  better 
living.    He  told  his  bishop  he  must  have  a  change." 

I  was  very  pleased  and  amused  with  my  new  name, 
though  I  was  secretly  a  little  vexed  that  I  could  not 
make  Stella  believe  that  I  was  really  grown  up.  She 
was  a  very  determined  little  person,  and  stuck  to  her 
opinions  with  the  tenacity  of  a  limpet.  She  certainly 
allows  that  I  am  fully  grown  up  now,  and  she  has  coined 
a  new  name  for  me,  which  I  will  not  at  present  divulge. 

I  thought  a  good  deal  about  Lady  Doreen  that  night; 
there  was  something  so  sad  and  tragical  in  the  idea  that 
she  had  been  taken  away  in  the  fulness  of  her  happiness. 
The  gentle  face  and  beaming  eyes  haunted  me.  Was  it 
any  wonder  that  Mr.  Carlyon  had  grown  old  and  grey? 
And  yet  one  could  not  look  at  him  without  seeing  that  he 
had  fought  bravely  and  refused  to  be  crushed  by  his 
sorrow.  Perhaps  his  nature  was  buoyant,  for  there  were 
times  when  he  seemed  to  throw  off  his  sadness.  When 
he  forgot  himself  utterly,  one  felt  instinctively  that  he 

135 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

was  a  man  to  whom  one  could  tell  a  great  trouble.  I 
remember  I  said  something  like  this  to  Cousin  Yvonne, 
and  she  looked  at  me  a  little  strangely. 

"  You  may  be  right,  Githa,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence.  "  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Carlyon  is  a  person 
one  could  absolutely  trust  in  an  emergency.  He  would 
be  kind — he  is  always  kind ;  but  he  is  inflexible  too.  With 
him  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong.  He  would  not 
tolerate  half  measures,  or  turn  aside  if  the  narrow  way 
be  ever  so  stony  " ;  and  then  Cousin  Yvonne  sighed  again 
a  little  heavily. 

Perhaps  Cousin  Yvonne  was  right.  She  was  a  shrewd 
student  of  human  nature,  and  she  generally  took  her 
neighbour's  measure  correctly.  Mr.  Carlyon  might  be 
inflexible,  but  I  had  a  secret  conviction  that  Lady  Doreen 
would  not  have  endorsed  Cousin  Yvonne's  opinion. 


136 


XIV 

BREAKERS  AHEAD 


Who  is  so  wise  that  he  can  fully  know  all  things?  Be  not, 
therefore,  too  confident  in  thine  own  opinion,  but  be  willing  to 
hear  the  opinion  of  others. — Thomasa    Kempis. 

First  weigh  and  consider,  then  dare. — Anon. 

What  is  right  to  be  done  cannot  be  done  too  quickly. — Anon. 

Cousin  Yvonne  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Etheridge 
the  next  morning  asking  us  all  to  have  tea  with  her  that 
afternoon.  The  Etheridges  seldom  invited  people  to 
dinner.  Mrs.  Etheridge's  bad  health  was  the  reason. 
She  was  hardly  ever  well  enough  to  play  the  part  of 
hostess  to  her  guests,  and  the  fatigue  of  a  long  dinner 
would  have  tired  her  much.  She  could  only  see  her 
friends  in  a  quiet  way,  so  there  were  frequent  tea-parties 
at  the  Mount. 

Cousin  Yvonne  was  rather  fond  of  Mrs.  Etheridge ; 
but  on  this  occasion  she  begged  to  excuse  herself.  "  I 
rather  increased  my  cold  the  other  evening,"  she 
observed ;  "  but  I  should  like  you  two  girls  to  go  " ;  and 
she  would  not  hear  of  one  of  us  remaining  at  home, 
though  I  was  anxious  to  stay  with  her.  My  pertinacity 
seemed  to  trouble  her,  for  she  said  rather  shortly  that 
she  preferred  to  be  alone ;  but,  as  I  looked  a  little  hurt 
at  this  rebuff,  she  continued  more  gently,  "  I  should  be 
very  sorry  for  you  to  refuse  Mrs.  Etheridge's  invitation, 

137 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Githa ;  Rhona  would  be  so  disappointed.  And  sometimes 
I  feel  more  disposed  for  my  own  company  than  for  other 
people's.  If  you  will  stay  with  me  to-morrow  evening, 
my  dear,  while  Sydney  goes  to  church,  I  shall  be  very 
grateful."  And,  of  course,  I  acquiesced  in  this  arrange- 
ment, though  I  was  rather  sorry  to  think  I  should  miss 
Mr.  Carlyon's  evening  sermon.  He  kept  no  curate,  and 
always  preached  twice  on  Sundays. 

I  had  no  particular  desire  to  go  to  the  Mount,  but  I 
saw  Cousin  Yvonne  wished  us  to  do  so.  But  when  I 
found  myself  alone  with  Sydney  I  grumbled  a  good  deal. 
"  I  can't  think  what  has  come  to  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I 
said  discontentedly ;  "  she  does  not  seem  a  bit  like  herself. 
We  used  to  have  such  good  times  together ;  but  this  visit 
things  are  so  different." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Sydney  soothingly ;  "  but  it 
is  no  use  worrying  about  it.  Aunt  Yvonne  is  not  well, 
you  know,  Githa.  Colonel  Etheridge  is  rather  prosy  and 
long-winded,  and  he  would  just  talk  her  to  death;  he 
always  does.  He  never  will  talk  to  any  one  else  if  she 
is  in  the  room.  He  told  me  once  that  she  was  a  grand 
woman,  and  had  a  man's  intellect  and  a  woman's  heart." 

I  smiled  at  this.  He  was  not  the  only  man  who 
admired  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  I  privately  hoped  that 
Colonel  Etheridge  would  not  think  me  worthy  of  his 
attentions.  But,  to  my  relief,  when  we  arrived  at  the 
Mount,  we  found  Mrs.  Etheridge  and  Rhona  alone ;  and 
he  did  not  make  his  appearance  until  tea  was  nearly 
over.  I  always  pitied  Mrs.  Etheridge.  I  know  she 
suffered  a  great  deal  at  times,  though  she  never  com- 
plained ;  but  it  was  not  always  easy  for  her  to  maintain 
her  cheerfulness.  She  was  sometimes  very  low  and 
despondent  about  herself;  and  Rhona  was  always  so 
good  and  patient  with  her. 

138 


BREAKERS  AHEAD 

Mrs.  Etheridge  had  been  very  pretty  in  her  youth, 
and  she  was  a  very  graceful  woman  still,  and  her  gentle- 
ness and  refinement  gave  a  pleasing  impression.  She 
took  my  hand  kindly,  and  made  me  sit  down  beside  her, 
and  talked  so  nicely  about  my  father  and  our  home  life 
together.  She  had  a  motherly  way  that  appealed  to 
young  people.  Rhona  looked  far  nicer  than  she  had  at 
St.  Helen's  Towers ;  her  dark  sapphire  velveteen  suited 
her  so  well.  She  looked  brighter  and  more  animated, 
and  when  her  father  entered  the  room  she  addressed  him 
almost  playfully.  To  my  surprise,  Thurston  walked  in  a 
little  late ;  but  I  found  out  afterwards  that  he  had  been 
invited,  and  had  left  the  invitation  open  until  the  last 
moment.  I  thought  Rhona  coloured  up,  as  though  she 
were  pleased ;  but  Sydney,  who  was  talking  to  Colonel 
Etheridge,  never  looked  round  until  Thurston  stood 
before  her. 

When  tea  was  over  Mrs.  Etheridge  beckoned  to  her 
daughter,  and  whispered  a  word  or  two  in  her  ear. 
Rhona  glanced  at  her  father  rather  apprehensively,  and 
then  she  nodded. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  mother." 

"  Do,  my  darling,  it  will  please  him  so  much,  and  he 
has  had  such  a  worrying  day  " ;  and  then  Rhona  went  off 
dutifully  to  fetch  her  violin.  Colonel  Etheridge  always 
accompanied  his  daughter.  He  had  been  a  very  good 
pianist  in  his  youth,  and  music  was  still  a  passion  with 
him. 

Mrs.  Etheridge  lay  on  her  couch  and  listened  in  a 
sort  of  rapture.  Colonel  Etheridge  might  be  a  martinet 
in  the  household,  as  Cousin  Yvonne  said,  but  he  was 
evidently  a  hero  in  his  wife's  eyes.  The  tall,  spare  man, 
with  the  bushy  grey  moustache  and  small  keen  eyes,  was 
to  her  a  miracle  of  martial  prowess.     She  endowed  him 

139 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

with  a  thousand  excellencies,  and  slurred  over  his  faults 
and  blemishes,  as  only  a  loving  woman  can.  From  an 
infant  Rhona  had  been  taught  that  her  father's  word  was 
a  household  law,  and  that  she  must  never  contradict  him. 

"  When  you  are  married,  dearest,  you  will  under- 
stand that  husbands  and  fathers  expect  to  be  obeyed, 
and  even  if  we  cannot  agree  with  them,"  went  on  this 
pattern  of  a  wife,  "  it  is  better  not  to  let  them  know  it " ; 
and  Mrs.  Etheridge  carried  out  this  wifely  policy  in  such 
a  masterly  manner  that  Colonel  Etheridge  held  up  his 
wife  to  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances  as  the  model 
of  a  woman.  "  Susannah  is  simply  perfect,"  he  said 
once  to  a  relative.  "  I  tell  Rhona  that  her  mother  is  a 
saint,"  and  Colonel  Etheridge  took  out  his  white  silk 
handkerchief  and  used  it  lustily,  while  the  keen  irritable- 
looking  eyes  were  somewhat  moist. 

Rhona  blundered  a  little  at  first,  and  Colonel 
Etheridge  glanced  at  her  rather  sharply  under  his  heavy 
eyebrows ;  but  Thurston  said  "  Bravo  "  under  his  breath, 
and  Rhona  smiled  faintly  and  recovered  herself,  and  then 
played  several  charming  pieces  by  Grieg.  When  Rhona 
gained  confidence  she  really  played  extremely  well.  Her 
manipulation  of  the  instrument  was  excellent,  and  her 
touch  very  light.  She  looked  very  happy  when  we  told 
her  so,  and  I  was  sorry  that  Colonel  Etheridge  recalled 
the  old  grievance. 

"  Lady  Wilde  would  have  enjoyed  that  last  piece," 
he  said  meaningly.  "  It  is  a  pity  that  you  deprived  her 
of  so  much  pleasure.  I  doubt  whether  she  will  ever  ask 
you  to  play  again." 

"  If  grannie  does  not,  I  will,"  returned  Thurston 
kindly,  for,  as  he  said  to  Sydney  afterwards,  "  he  hated 
to  see  the  poor  little  thing  badgered  in  that  unfeeling 
way."    Rhona  looked  quite  pretty  as  she  flashed  a  grate- 

140 


BREAKERS  AHEAD 

ful  look  at  him,  and  Colonel  Etheridge  smiled  under 
his  big  moustache  and  patted  his  daughter's  shoulder 
benignantly  as  he  passed. 

Sydney  and  I  sang  together  after  that,  and  the  after- 
noon passed  so  quickly  and  pleasantly  that  I  was  quite 
surprised  when  Sydney  told  me  that  it  was  nearly  seven 
and  that  we  must  go  at  once.  Thurston  evidently  wished 
to  accompany  us,  but  Colonel  Etheridge  detained  him, 
and  we  were  half-way  on  our  homeward  road  before  he 
overtook  us,  quite  breathless  with  haste. 

"  The  old  fellow  would  keep  me,"  he  said  impatiently. 
"  I  had  to  tell  him  that  I  should  be  late  for  dinner,  or  I 
should  never  have  got  away  at  all." 

"  I  thought  Lady  Wilde  never  dined  until  half-past 
seven,"  observed  Sydney  coolly. 

"  Oh.  of  course  it  was  a  bit  of  a  fib,"  returned 
Thurston  with  a  vexed  laugh ;  "  but  I  have  been  counting 
on  the  walk  home  all  the  afternoon." 

He  looked  at  Sydney  as  he  spoke.  The  path  was 
rather  narrow,  and  I  dropped  behind  for  a  moment,  but 
neither  of  them  seemed  to  notice  it.  He  went  on  talking 
in  a  low,  eager  tone,  but  I  could  not  catch  his  words. 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  into  my  mind :  was  it 
possible  that  Thurston  really  cared  seriously  for  Sydney? 
He  was  only  one-and-twenty,  and  it  might  possibly  be 
lad's  love  or  a  passing  fancy,  and  yet  I  had  a  strong  con- 
viction that  he  was  in  earnest. 

Sydney,  too,  was  different.  She  seemed  a  little  shy 
with  him  this  evening,  and  less  unrestrained  and  spon- 
taneous in  her  talk.  I  longed  to  ask  Cousin  Yvonne  if 
she  had  noticed  anything.  Thurston  was  a  great 
favourite  of  hers,  and  I  had  a  notion  that  nothing  would 
please  her  more.  Sydney  was  her  adopted  daughter,  and 
I  knew  how  dear  she  was  to  her. 

141 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

I  found  an  unexpected  opportunity  that  very  evening, 
for  after  dinner  Sydney  was  called  away  for  an  hour. 
She  was  giving  lessons  in  arithmetic  to  a  backward  youth 
of  seventeen  who  was  anxious  to  fit  himself  for  a  shop- 
man's situation,  and  he  came  to  her  two  evenings  in  the 
week.  Sydney  was  a  very  good  teacher.  She  had  a 
clear  head,  and  knew  how  to  explain  things  in  a  simple, 
lucid  way. 

Cousin  Yvonne  was  knitting  a  silk  tie  for  Thurston. 
She  always  gave  him  some  little  present  on  his  birthday 
and  at  Christmas ;  but  she  told  me  that  this  was  what 
she  called  a  "  'tweenie  gift,"  and  was  for  no  special  occa- 
sion. "  I  shall  tell  him  it  is  for  a  good  boy,"  she  observed 
composedly. 

This  gave  me  an  opening.  "  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  said 
suddenly,  "  such  an  odd  idea  came  into  my  head  as  I 
was  walking  home  with  Thurston  and  Sydney  this  even- 
ing." She  looked  up  a  little  sharply  at  this,  and  I  went 
on. 

"  Do  you  think — has  it  ever  crossed  your  mind  that 
Thurston  may  care  for  Sydney?  Of  course,  I  do  not 
know.  I  have  nothing  very  definite  to  go  on,  but  it 
struck  me  this  evening  that  he  admires  her." 

I  thought  Cousin  Yvonne  seemed  a  little  disturbed. 

"  I  hope  you  are  wrong  in  your  surmise.  Githa,"  she 
said  very  seriously.  "  Thurston  is  far  too  young  for 
anything  but  a  passing  fancy.  Young  men  of  his  age 
fall  in  love  over  and  over  again.  Thurston  sees  so  few 
girls,  and  he  and  Sydney  have  been  thrown  so  much 
together,  it  is  just  propinquity.  They  have  always  been 
good  friends,  and  I  daresay  that  in  a  way  he  admires 
her." 

Cousin  Yvonne  was  trying  to  explain  things  away, 
but    I    could    read    her   thoughts.      She    was    evidently 

142 


BREAKERS  AHEAD 

uneasy;  probably  the  same  idea  had  crossed  her  mind, 
but  she  had  refused  to  entertain  it.  She  observed  things 
so  keenly,  that  I  felt  convinced  that  she  must  have 
noticed  how  Thurston's  attention  had  wandered  during 
dinner  and  how  he  had  watched  Sydney. 

**  Sydney's  manner  was  quite  different  to  him  this 
afternoon,"  I  went  on.  "  She  seemed  as  though  she 
wished  to  keep  him  at  a  distance.  If  he  is  beginning  to 
care  for  her "     But  Cousin  Yvonne  interrupted  me. 

"  I  trust  it  is  only  your  fancy,  Githa,  my  dear ;  you 
are  making  me  very  uncomfortable.  I  will  not  deny 
that  Thurston's  manner  rather  troubled  me  last  evening, 
but  I  trusted  that  no  one  else  noticed  it." 

"  But,  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  that 
you  were  so  fond  of  Thurston,  and  that  nothing  would 
have  pleased  you  better  than  to  know  that  he  cared  for 
Sydney." 

"  Nothing  w6uld  please  me  less,  you  mean,"  she 
returned  in  her  decided  way.  "  Of  course,  I  am  fond  of 
the  lad,  I  have  known  him  from  a  baby.  But  what  has 
my  affection  to  do  with  the  matter?  If  the  foolish  boy 
is  losing  his  heart  to  Sydney,  he  is  just  sowing  trouble 
for  himself  and  every  one  else." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  "  I  faltered.  "  Thurston  is 
very  young,  of  course — but  if  they  care  for  each  other !  " 

"  Sydney  must  not  care  for  him,"  she  returned,  with 
a  worried  look.  "  Something  must  be  done ;  Thurston 
ought  to  be  warned.  His  grandmother  would  never 
permit  him  to  marry  a  penniless  girl.  It  is  not  as  though 
Sydney  were  my  daughter ;  I  can  only  provide  for  her 
moderately  after  my  death.  Besides,"  with  an  impatient 
frown,  "  Lady  Wilde  has  far  different  views  for  her 
grandson.    She  means  him  to  marry  Rhona." 

"  But  this  is  preposterous.  Cousin  Yvonne.  We  are 
143 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

no  longer  in  the  dark  ages.  Thurston  will  insist  on 
choosing  his  own  wife." 

"  You  will  not  get  Lady  Wilde  to  believe  that,  Githa. 
She  and  Colonel  Etheridge  are  bent  on  his  marrying 
Rhona,  and  if  it  were  not  for  Sydney  he  really  could 
not  do  better  for  himself.  She  is  a  sweet,  good  girl, 
and  will  make  an  excellent  wife.  The  fact  is,  though 
you  do  not  know  it,  Githa,  and  I  do  not  rightly  under- 
stand it  myself, — Lady  Wilde  and  Colonel  Etheridge 
have  interest  in  some  big  business  concern ;  without  being 
partners,  their  interest  is  identical,  and  they  are  anxious 
that  it  should  be  kept  in  the  family.  My  explanation  is 
a  little  obscure,  but  I  cannot  make  it  plainer.  From 
children  they  have  been  intended  for  each  other.  If 
Thurston  marries  Rhona  he  will  be  a  wealthy  man." 

"  But  if  he  is  in  love  with  Sydney,  Cousin  Yvonne?  " 

"  My  dear,  the  thing  is  impossible.  I  shall  have  to 
send  Sydney  away.  Thurston  could  never  marry  her. 
He  is  dependent  on  his  grandmother,  and  if  he  crosses 
her  will,  she  can  cut  him  off  with  the  proverbial  shilling. 
He  has  no  profession,  and  has  had  no  training  for  busi- 
ness. Circumstances  will  be  too  strong  for  him ;  he  will 
be  driven  to  marry  Rhona." 

"  But  he  does  not  love  her,"  I  returned  indignantly, 
"  even  if  Sydney  were  out  of  the  question.  Thurston 
ought  not  to  marry  Rhona ;  he  does  not  care  for  her ;  he 
thinks  her  colourless  and  insignificant  and  uninteresting. 
How  could  he  pass  his  life  with  her?  It  would  be  wrong 
and  wicked  if  he  married  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  many  people  do  these  wrong  and  wicked 
things,"  sighed  Cousin  Yvonne.  "  A  girl  will  occa- 
sionally sell  her  fair  self  for  a  coronet,  and  mercenary 
marriages  are  made  every  day.  But  you  are  right,  my 
dear,  and  it  is  bitter  and  crying  shame.    But  the  question 

144 


BREAKERS  AHEAD 

is,  what  are  we  to  do  for  these  poor  children?  for  they 
are  little  more  than  children.  Thurston  is  so  young  that 
he  may  get  over  his  fancy  if  only  Sydney  could  be  sent 
away,  but  the  question  is,  where  ?  " 

"  Let  her  come  to  us,"  I  returned  eagerly.  "  Father 
likes  her  so  much,  and  I  should  love  to  have  her.  She 
could  come  for  a  visit  and  stay  as  long  as  you  wish." 

I  thought  Cousin  Yvonne  seemed  pleased  with  this 
idea ;  she  even  owned  that  it  would  be  a  good  plan.  And 
then  she  said  that  she  must  think  over  it  very  carefully. 
"  I  cannot  give  my  mind  to  it  just  now,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly.  "  I  have  other  business  on  hand  that  needs 
my  immediate  attention,  and  there  is  no  use  doing  things 
in  a  hurry,  we  must  be  careful  to  make  no  mistakes. 
You  have  done  well  to  give  me  this  hint,  Githa,  and  I 
shall  watch  over  the  dear  child  more  carefully.  Heaven 
forbid  that  any  such  unhappiness  should  come  to  her — 
or  that  poor  boy.  He  is  not  in  my  hands,"  she  broke  off 
with  a  deep  sigh,  as  though  the  whole  subject  wearied 
her  inexpressibly;  and  she  seemed  so  worn  and  tired 
that  Sydney  looked  at  her  quite  anxiously  when  she 
returned  to  the  room,  but  Cousin  Yvonne  only  said  her 
head  ached  and  she  thought  she  would  go  to  bed,  but  I 
could  see  Sydney  was  not  quite  satisfied. 

"  I  wonder  what  you  and  Aunt  Yvonne  have  been 
talking  about,"  she  observed  when  we  were  alone,  "your 
face  is  so  hot,  Githa  " ;  but  I  only  answered  in  a  frivolous 
manner,  and  hurried  off,  for  fear  she  should  ask  any 
more  questions. 

It  was  a  relief  to  shut  myself  in  my  room.  It  was 
a  lovely  spring  night,  and  the  moonlight  was  flooding 
the  little  lawn  and  paths.  I  sat  down  by  the  window 
and  thought  over  my  conversation  with  Cousin  Yvonne. 
I  had  only  given  pain  where  I  had  expected  to  give 
10  145 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

pleasure.  But  I  had  never  guessed  at  all  this  complica- 
tion and  difficulty,  and  my  heart  was  sore  for  my  old 
playmate. 

Of  course,  I  was  only  a  romantic  child,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  such  a  beautiful  idea  that  he  and  Sydney  should 
learn  to  care  for  each  other;  the  whole  thing  was  so 
idyllic  and  simple,  a  sort  of  lovely  poem  in  real  life ;  and 
I  knew,  though  Cousin  Yvonne  would  not  confess  it, 
that  nothing  would  have  pleased  her  so  well. 

And  now  there  was  Rhona — innocent,  unconscious 
Rhona —  a  mere  tool  in  her  father's  hands,  a  shadowy, 
pathetic  little  figure  hovering  in  the  background. 

"  And  we  are  not  in  the  dark  ages,"  I  repeated  again, 
folding  my  arms  comfortably  under  my  head  as  I  gazed 
out  on  the  moonlight ;  and  then  my  thoughts  made  a 
sudden  divagation :  "  What  was  that  important  business 
on  hand  that  needed  Cousin  Yvonne's  immediate  atten- 
tion ?  "  But  how  little  I  guessed  how  soon  I  should  be 
able  to  answer  that  question ! 


146 


XV 
WHILE  RINGING  TO  EVENSONG 


Nothing  is  too  little  to  be  ordered  by  our  Father ;  nothing  too 
little  in  which  to  see  His  hand;  nothing  which  touches  our  souls, 
too  little  to  accept  from  Him ;  nothing  too  little  to  be  done  for 
Him. — Anon. 

'Tis  the  life,  rather  than  the  lips,  which  speak, 
And  a  man's  greatest  utterance  is  himself. 

Anon. 

From  a  child  I  had  always  loved  Sunday  at  Bayfield ! 
I  loved  the  quiet  little  services,  although  they  were  some- 
what unadorned  and  simple  in  Mr.  Dennison's  time,  and 
to  walk  through  the  churchyard  with  its  rose-bordered 
paths  and  flower-decked  graves. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  white  flocks  of  geese 
straggling  over  the  village  green  in  the  sunshine,  and 
now  and  then  hissing  their  alarmed  protests  as  the  school 
lads  elbowed  each  other  noisily  ofif  the  path ;  and  I  liked 
to  watch  Gaffer  Stokes,  hobbling  down  the  road  in  his 
grey  smock  and  smart  red  handkerchief,  with  his  wife 
beside  him. 

The  old  couple  were  survivals  of  the  Georgian  period, 
and  Bayfield  was  absurdly  proud  of  them.  Grannie 
Stokes,  as  she  was  called,  was  still  hale  and  hearty,  in 
spite  of  her  eighty  and  odd  years.  She  was  a  comely 
old  woman,  with  cheeks  like  withered  apples,  and  eyes 
that  were  blue  and  clear  as  an  infant's ;  and  she  always 

147 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

carried  her  prayer-book  wrapped  up  in  a  blue  checked 
handkerchief,  with  a  sprig  of  rosemary,  or  wallflower, 
or  fresh  lavender  tucked  in  the  folds.  They  were  a  dear 
old  couple,  and  lived  in  a  quaint  little  cottage  opposite 
the  church,  called  the  Beehive,  a  perfect  picture  of  a 
place,  with  a  red-tiled  kitchen  and  a  roomy  porch,  where 
Gaffer  Stokes  smoked  his  pipe  in  the  evening.  The 
cottage  belonged  to  Cousin  Yvonne,  and  I  knew  the  old 
couple  lived  in  it  rent-free,  and  that  she  gave  them  a  small 
weekly  allowance  besides. 

They  had  a  large  family,  but  all  their  sons  and  daugh- 
ters were  married  and  had  children  of  their  own ;  but 
they  were  honest,  hard-working  folk,  and  each  one  sub- 
scribed a  small  sum  towards  their  parents'  maintenance, 
and  on  washing  or  ironing  days  either  Betty  or  Susan 
or  Lizzie  would  step  over  to  the  Beehive  to  do  an  hour's 
turn  at  the  wash-tub  to  save  grannie. 

"  I  have  my  fill  of  blessings,"  grannie  would  say : 
''  we  have  good  children,  plenty  to  eat,  and  a  roof  to 
cover  us  in  our  old  age.  And  I  thank  the  Lord  humbly 
for  His  mercies,"  she  finished,  looking  proudly  round 
her  comfortable  kitchen,  the  house  place  all  redded  up, 
and  always  a  bright  little  fire  in  the  well-polished  grate. 

Grannie  had  always  something  pleasant  to  relate  of 
her  children's  kindness  and  thoughtfulness.  Now  it  was 
John — John,  a  grey-headed  man,  his  shoulders  already 
bowed  with  work, — who  had  brought  them  a  rabbit  and 
a  fine  lot  of  potatoes ;  or  Ben,  who  had  divided  the  loin 
of  pork  that  his  master  had  given  him,  and  had  carried 
them  a  goodly  portion,  though  it  was  none  too  large  for 
his  family  of  hungry  boys  and  girls. 

"  Grannie  is  fond  of  a  bit  of  pork  and  apple  sauce," 
he  said  somewhat  gruffly  when  his  wife  ventured  to 
remonstrate — not  that  Nancy  would  not  do  a  good  turn 

148 


WHILE  RINGING  TO  EVENSONG 

for  her  mother-in-law,  though  she  would  have  drawn 
the  Hne  at  roast  pork. 

Cousin  Yvonne  was  very  fond  of  the  old  couple,  and 
she  was  always  planning  something  fresh  for  their  com- 
fort; but  then  she  was  good  to  all  the  village  folk. 

I  woke  that  Sunday  with  a  curious  feeling  that  either 
something  had  happened  or  would  happen ;  and  then  I 
remembered  my  talk  with  Cousin  Yvonne.  I  wished 
that  I  had  held  my  tongue  and  not  given  her  this  fresh 
cause  for  worry.  When  I  saw  her  pale  face  at  the  break- 
fast table,  I  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  not  slept  well ; 
but  she  greeted  me  with  more  than  her  usual  kindness. 

'*  I  suppose  you  will  go  to  the  Sunday  school  with 
Sydney,"  she  observed ;  "  so  we  shall  meet  in  church." 
And  as  I  knew  Sydney  wished  to  introduce  her  little 
scholars  to  me,  I  assented  to  this  arrangement,  though 
I  thought  Cousin  Yvonne  would  be  wiser  to  stay  at 
home.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  seriously  uneasy  about 
her.  I  was  convinced  that  she  was  either  ill  or  unhappy. 
Her  face  looked  quite  drawn  and  old  that  morning; 
but,  as  Sydney  said,  she  could  not  help  being  beautiful, 
and  even  in  old  age  she  would  look  better  than  other 
people. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  the  promise  of  May 
was  in  the  air.  I  noticed  the  pink  and  white  hawthorn 
in  the  Vicarage  garden,  and  the  great  downy  greenish- 
white  balls  of  the  guelder  roses  hanging  heavily  on  the 
walls. 

As  we  passed  through  the  outer  room  devoted  to 
the  infants,  I  was  surprised  to  see  Stella  and  Cyril  sitting 
very  erect  and  open-eyed  at  the  end  of  the  form.  I 
nudged  Sydney  to  make  her  look,  but  she  said  coolly 
that  they  always  attended  the  morning  class  and  gen- 
erally  behaved   very   well.      But   I   thought   little   Miss 

149 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Williams,  the  draper's  daughter,  seemed  a  little  over- 
whelmed by  her  responsibilities.  I  found  out  afterwards 
that  Stella  had  made  some  very  surprising  statements 
during  the  morning's  lessons,  which  were  as  uncalled  for 
and  irrelevant  as  Mr.  F's  Aunt's  in  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  Miss  Darnell,"  observed  the 
poor  little  teacher  piteously,  "  the  smallest  children  were 
saying  their  '  Gentle  Jesus  '  so  nicely,  and  dear  little 
Cyril  repeated  it  with  them,  and  Stella  suddenly  got 
very  red,  and  put  up  her  hand  and  wanted  to  say  some- 
thing to  teacher.  And  what  do  you  think  it  was.  Miss 
Herbert  ?  It  was  only  '  she  thoughted  that  'ell  must  be 
rather  a  nice  warm  place  when  it  was  cold,  and  that  she 
and  Cyril  did  so  want  to  play  with  fire  ' — did  you  ever 
hear  such  a  thing?  But  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  most 
of  the  children  were  too  young  to  understand." 

"  You  ought  to  have  given  her  a  bad  mark,  Miss 
Williams." 

Miss  Williams  sighed.  "  So  I  did.  Miss  Darnell ; 
but  she  was  in  a  perverse  mood,  and  said  she  liked  bad 
marks.  And  then  Cyril  said  he  wanted  one  too,  and  all 
the  children  laughed.  I  really  felt  ready  to  cry ;  but 
Mr.  Carlyon  happened  to  pass  through  the  room,  and 
he  seemed  to  understand  without  my  telling  him.  *  I 
am  sorry  you  have  a  bad  mark,  Stella,'  he  said  in  such  a 
loud  voice.  '  for  I  cannot  possibly  have  tea  in  the  nursery 
this  evening;  so  I  am  punished  as  well  as  you.'  Oh,  I 
was  so  sorry  for  the  poor  little  thing  when  he  said  that, 
though  she  had  been  naughty,  for  she  cried  and  sobbed 
her  little  heart  out." 

Mr.  Carlyon  came  up  to  speak  to  us  before  he  went 
into  church.  He  wanted  me  to  take  a  class  that  after- 
noon, as  one  of  the  teachers  was  absent. 

Cousin  Yvonne  was  in  her  seat  when  we  entered ; 
ISO 


WHILE  RINGING  TO  EVENSONG 

I  always  sat  next  to  her.  I  noticed  a  great  change  in  the 
service;  the  choir  was  better  trained,  and  the  singing 
was  more  reverent.  Mr.  Carlyon  read  the  Lesson  and 
intoned  the  Litany  most  beautifully,  and  his  sermon  was 
very  helpful.  He  had  chosen  such  a  singular  text,  "  And 
fears  shall  be  in  the  way."  It  seemed  addressed  to  people 
advanced  in  years  more  than  to  the  young ;  and  he  used 
an  odd  simile,  for  he  spoke  more  than  once  of  "  the 
magnifying-glass  of  fear." 

"  It  has  been  wisely  said,"  he  went  on,  "  that  we 
project  our  own  shadows ;  and  it  is  certain  that  even 
good  and  religious-minded  people  give  themselves  and 
others  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  pain  by  forecasting 
the  evil  that  may  not  come.  They  can  trust  their  heavenly 
Father  to  bring  them  to  heaven,  but  they  cannot  leave 
to-morrow  to  His  loving  care.  '  Fears  shall  be  in  the 
way,'  like  the  lions  that  lay  in  wait  to  frighten  Christian 
when  he  went  up  to  the  palace  Beautiful.  '  O  ye  of 
little  faith,' — can  we  not  hear  those  words  from  the 
Master's  lips  spoken  to  timid  disciples,  and  most  surely 
addressed  to  us !  The  other  day,"  he  went  on  in  a  simple, 
impressive  way,  "  in  turning  over  an  old  book,  I  came 
upon  a  quaint  verse  which  you  may  never  have  heard : 

"  Build  a  little  fence  of  trust 
Around   to-day ; 
Fill  the  space  with  loving  work, 
And  therein  stay. 

Look  not  through  the  sheltering  bars 

Upon   to-morrow ; 
God  will  help  thee  bear  what  comes 

Of  joy  or  sorrow.' " 

And  just  at  the  close  of  his  sermon  he  quoted  a  sentence 
from  the  old   Scotch  divine,   Samuel  Rutherford,  in  a 

151 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

singularly  solemn  voice :  " '  I  wonder  many  times  that 
ever  a  child  of  God  should  have  a  sad  heart,  considering 
what  the  Lord  is  preparing  for  him.'  " 

I  looked  at  Cousin  Yvonne  as  we  rose  at  the  Gloria, 
but  her  face  had  the  same  strained,  weary  look  it  had 
worn  at  breakfast;  her  beautiful  eyes  were  full  of 
unspeakable  sadness  as  they  met  mine ;  but  as  we  passed 
out  of  the  church  porch,  she  left  my  side  to  speak  to 
Lady  Wilde,  who  was  following  us.  I  noticed  how 
quickly  Thurston  seized  his  opportunity  to  speak  to 
Sydney,  and  the  tell-tale  flush  that  rose  to  her  face  at 
his  greeting;  I  felt  that  my  intuition  had  been  correct. 
Unconsciously  those  two  young  hearts  had  been  drawing 
closer  to  each  other ;  perhaps  even  now  it  might  be  too 
late  for  any  warning  word  to  avert  the  danger.  If 
Sydney  had  not  suddenly  looked  down  in  her  shy  con- 
sciousness, she  must  surely  have  seen  the  lovelight  in 
Thurston's  eyes. 

At  luncheon  Sydney  repeated  Stella's  extraordinary 
remark.  "  I  cannot  imagine,"  she  continued  in  a  shocked 
voice,  "  how  a  baby  like  Stella  could  ever  have  heard 
of  the  existence  of  such  a  place.  I  am  quite  sure  Peace 
would  not  have  mentioned  it." 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Cousin  Yvonne ;  "  but  I  think 
it  is  easy  to  find  a  solution  of  that  mystery.  Do  you 
remember,  Sydney,  when  Peace  had  quinsy,  and  was 
obliged  to  go  home  for  a  fortnight,  and  Lady  Wilde 
recommended  a  protegee  of  hers,  Eliza  Brett,  as  a  tem- 
porary nursemaid?  I  never  liked  the  girl,  in  spite  of 
all  Lady  Wilde's  recommendations ;  there  is  something 
not  quite  straightforward  about  her,  and  she  is  too 
plausible  for  my  taste.  I  recollect  I  told  Mr.  Carlyon 
so,  but  he  evidently  did  not  share  my  opinion." 

"  But  he  sent  her  off  in  a  hurry.  Aunt  Yvonne," 
152 


WHILE  RINGING  TO  EVENSONG 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  and  it  was  one  of  Stella's  speeches 
that  opened  his  eyes.  She  asked  him  one  day  why  God 
shut  up  naughty  people  in  a  nasty  hot  place  where  they 
could  not  get  out;  she  did  not  think  it  kind,  if  they 
were  sorry  and  promised  to  be  good.  And  when  he 
asked  her  who  had  told  her  such  a  thing,  she  said  Eliza 
had  done  so ;  and  Cyril  cried  and  seemed  frightened. 
I  never  saw  Mr.  Carlyon  so  angry.  Eliza  was  sent  off 
that  very  day." 

To  think  that  these  mediaeval  misinterpretations 
and  hideous  travesties  should  reach  my  child's  ears ! ' " 
he  said  to  me.  "  '  Material  pitchforks  and  flames ;  and  we 
believe  in  the  Fatherhood  of  God !  Will  not  utter  banish- 
ment from  the  presence  of  the  Beloved  be  punishment 
enough?  and  absence  from  the  Light — the  outer  dark- 
ness— of  which  we  are  warned  ?  '  " 

*'  I  fancy  that  Mr.  Carlyon  holds  very  strong  views 
on  this  subject." 

Just  before  Sydney  and  I  started  for  the  Sunday 
school,  Rhona  came  in.  She  said  her  mother  had  had 
a  great  deal  of  pain  that  day,  and  seemed  unusually 
nervous  and  depressed ;  and  her  father  thought  that  a 
little  sacred  music  would  soothe  her  and  make  her  sleep. 

"  Father  wants  Sydney  and  Githa  to  have  supper 
with  us ;  and  he  promises  that  he  will  see  them  home  " ; 
but  before  either  could  answer  Cousin  Yvonne  interposed. 

"  Githa  has  promised  to  stay  with  me ;  she  is  not 
even  going  to  church ;  but  Sydney  can  go.  There  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  not,  dear." 

"  If  you  are  sure  that  neither  you  nor  Githa  mind," 
returned  Sydney.  I  saw  from  her  manner  that  she 
wished  to  accept  the  invitation,  though  she  was  too  unsel- 
fish to  say  so.  Had  she  any  hope  that  Thurston  would 
be  there  ?    I  felt  there  would  be  no  doubt  on  that  point ; 

153 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

he  generally  attended  evening  service,  and  he  would 
soon  find  out  that  Sydney  was  going  home  with  Rhona, 
and  as  he  had  a  standing  invitation  to  the  Mount  he 
would  speedily  follow  them.  Lady  Wilde  would  be  the 
first  to  encourage  him  to  do  so,  she  was  far  too  dense 
and  unobservant  to  find  out  that  Sydney,  not  Rhona, 
was  the  attraction. 

Sydney  looked  very  happy  when  this  point  was 
settled,  but  she  said  little  as  we  walked  through  the 
village. 

I  found  my  class  all  ready  for  me,  and  as  the  little 
girls  were  very  attentive  and  willing  to  be  taught  I 
spent  a  very  pleasant  and  profitable  afternoon.  On  our 
way  home  Mr.  Carlyon  overtook  us ;  he  was  going  to  a 
cottage  a  little  beyond  our  lane,  to  see  a  sick  man.  Just 
before  we  parted  I  asked  him  if  he  had  relented  about 
the  nursery  tea,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  never  think  it  wise  to  change  my  mind,"  he 
returned ;  "  baby  as  she  is,  my  little  Star  needs  a  firm, 
guiding  hand,  and  I  love  my  children  far  too  well  to 
indulge  them  when  they  are  really  naughty.  I  dare  say 
Peace  will  contrive  some  little  amelioration  in  the  shape 
of  honey  or  jam."  It  was  pleasant  to  see  Mr.  Carlyon's 
look  as  he  said  this ;  doubtless  he  himself  had  suggested 
honey  to  Peace.  I  was  glad  to  know  that  he  could  be 
so  wise  and  firm  with  those  wayward  little  creatures. 
But  what  a  darling  Stella  was  after  all! 

It  had  always  been  Cousin  Yvonne's  habit  to  play  on 
the  organ  until  church  time,  and  again  after  supper ;  but 
this  evening  she  went  to  her  room,  and  never  came  down 
until  Sydney  was  just  starting  for  church.  I  walked  a 
little  way  down  the  lane  with  her;  it  was  a  lovely  even- 
ing; the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  were  singing  their 
vesper  hymn,  and  the  church  bells  sounded  in  the  dis- 
tance.    How  peaceful  it  was;  the  soft  blue  evening  sky 

IS4 


WHILE  RINGING  TO  EVENSONG 

was  flecked  with  tiny  clouds  like  baby  fingers ;  the  air 
was  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  lilac  and  wallflowers.  I 
felt  a  strange  desire  to  be  in  the  little  church ;  they  were 
to  sing  Bishop  Ken's  evening  hymn,  it  was  father's 
favourite.  I  thought  of  dear  father  when  Sydney  had 
left  me,  and  wondered  if  he  were  missing  me.  "  Perhaps 
he  has  gone  to  Aunt  Cosie,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  turned 
in  at  the  gate. 

When  I  re-entered  the  cottage  I  found  Cousin  Yvonne 
walking  rather  restlessly  up  and  down  the  drawing- 
room  ;  but  she  stopped  abruptly  when  she  saw  me,  and 
sat  down  by  the  window,  and,  as  I  did  not  at  once  follow 
her,  she  called  to  me. 

"  Will  you  come  and  sit  down,  Githa,  I  want  to  have 
a  long  talk  with  you  this  evening,  that  is  why  I  asked 
you  to  stay  with  me  " ;  she  paused  as  though  to  clear  her 
voice.  "  There  is  something  that  your  father  wishes  me 
to  tell  you,  and  I  have  only  waited  until  you  were  old 
enough ;  it  is  about  your  mother." 

My  mother !  If  a  comet  had  suddenly  flashed  across 
the  clear  spring  sky  I  could  not  have  been  more  aston- 
ished ;  never  in  all  these  seventeen  years  had  any  one 
voluntarily  mentioned  her  name.  Something  in  Cousin 
Yvonne's  manner  vaguely  alarmed  me.  "  What  do  you 
mean?"  I  gasped.  "You  knew  her,  you  knew  my 
mother,  and  yet  all  these  years  you  have  never  spoken  to 
me  about  her !  " 

"  Of  course  that  seems  strange  to  you,"  she  answered 
slowly.  "  I  can  put  myself  in  your  place  and  understand 
how  you  feel  about  it,  but  you  cannot  judge,  Githa; 
there  were  reasons,  and  I  did  it  for  the  best.'* 

"Did  you  know  her  well.  Cousin  Yvonne?"  I  asked 
eagerly ;  and  again  she  paused  as  though  speech  were 
difficult. 

155 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  She  was  a  close  friend,"  she  returned  after  a 
moment's  silence.  "  I  knew  all  her  virtues  and  faults, 
and  the  mistakes  for  which  she  paid  so  dearly." 

"  And  you  liked  her?  "I  persisted,  for  she  seemed  so 
unwilling  to  speak. 

"  Liked  her — yes,  I  suppose  so — but  we  were  too 
much  alike.  Oh,"  in  a  voice  of  despair,  "  it  is  impos- 
sible! I  never  imagined  the  difficulty,  Githa,"  with 
curious  abruptness.  "  I  believe  you  have  never  seen  your 
mother's  portrait.  Would  you  like  to  see  it?  shall  I 
show  it  to  you  ?  " 

Wish  to  see  it!  The  tears  rose  to  my  eyes  with  a 
sudden  passion  of  longing.  I  think  Cousin  Yvonne  saw 
that  I  was  too  much  moved  to  answer  her ;  for  her  hand 
rested  on  my  shoulder  for  a  moment  with  a  caressing 
pressure,  then  she  left  the  room.  I  sat  alone  in  the  even- 
ing light,  and  looked  out  on  the  pink  flush  in  the  western 
sky  that  heralded  the  sunset ;  my  heart  was  beating  faster 
than  usual.  I  felt  strongly  agitated;  Cousin  Yvonne's 
paleness,  her  constrained  manner,  filled  me  with  uneasy 
anticipations,  and  yet — but  before  I  could  formulate  the 
thought  that  was  troubling  me  she  re-entered  with  two 
pictures,  one  framed,  and  the  other  evidently  a  large 
photograph;  both  were  wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 

"  There  are  two,"  she  observed  as  she  placed  them  on 
the  table  before  me ;  "  you  had  better  look  first  at  the 
latest  portrait  that  was  taken  of  your  mother,  the  earlier 
one  is  underneath " ;  then  she  turned  her  back  and 
walked  slowly  to  the  window. 

My  hands  trembled  as  I  drew  off  the  cover.  As  I 
did  so  I  gave  a  sudden  start,  for  the  pictured  face  that 
lay  before  me  on  the  table  was  that  of  Cousin  Yvonne. 


iS6 


XVI 

"WHY  DID  YOU  LEAVE  US?" 


Thou  art  not  made  like  us. 
We  should  be  wroth  in  such  a  case ;  but  Thou  forgivest. 

Browning. 

I  bow  before  the  noble  mind 

That  freely  some  great  wrong  forgives ; 

Yet  nobler  is  the  one  forgiven 

Who  bears  that  burden  well  and  lives. 

A.   Procter. 

Needing    so   much    forgiveness,    God    grant    me    at    least    to 
forgive. — Lytton. 

There  are  moments  in  life  which  seem  to  be  stamped 
and  branded  on  our  memories  as  though  seared  by  a 
hot  iron.  I  verily  believe  that  to  my  dying-  day  I  shall 
never  forget  that  minute  when  I  looked  at  my  mother's 
picture. 

I  was  not  a  weak,  neurotic  girl.  On  the  contrary,  I 
was  physically  strong  and  healthy ;  and  though  my 
temperament  was  naturally  impressionable  and  impulsive, 
I  was  by  no  means  hysterical  or  highly  strung.  Never- 
theless, the  shock  of  that  overpowering  surprise  turned 
me  so  faint  and  sick  that  I  was  unable  to  speak  or  move 
— no  exclamation  crossed  my  lips,  there  were  only  flashes 
before  my  eyes  and  a  choking  sensation  in  my  throat.  I 
felt  as  helpless  as  a  child  who  was  lost,  and  found  itself 
in  a  strange,  lonely  place,  with  night  coming  on. 

157 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Githa,  will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?  "  Surely  Cousin 
Yvonne's  voice  came  from  a  great  distance,  it  was  so 
low  and  muffled.  "  Oh,  my  darling,  do  not  look  at  me 
like  that,  or  you  will  break  my  heart."  Cold  hands  were 
holding  mine,  and  as  I  sank  into  a  chair,  unable  to  sup- 
port myself  a  moment  longer,  she  knelt  beside  me ;  there 
was  a  mist  before  my  eyes,  and  I  could  not  see  her  face 
plainly ;  but  the  muffled  voice  was  close  to  my  ears. 

"  I  have  been  too  sudden,  but  the  task  was  beyond 
my  strength.  No — do  not  try  to  speak,  my  precious 
one,  you  are  giddy  with  the  shock."  She  drew  my  head 
gently  to  her  shoulder,  but  I  could  feel  how  her  arms 
trembled  as  though  she  were  suddenly  weak.  "  Rest 
quietly  a  moment,  your  mother  is  holding  you."  Ah ! 
the  new  tenderness  in  the  voice.  The  word  roused  me 
and  gave  me  strength  to  speak. 

"  My  mother  is  dead." 

"  No,  darling,  no !  no  one  has  ever  told  you  such  a 
lie.  She  is  here  beside  you,  and  loving  you  with  all  her 
heart.  Now,  my  sweet,  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.  You 
are  not  fit  to  talk ;  you  must  lie  down  on  that  couch  until 
the  faintness  has  passed,  and  I  will  bring  you  some  water. 
Rebecca  is  at  church,  and  I  do  not  want  to  call  any  of 
the  servants.  If  I  help  you,  you  would  be  able  to  walk 
those  few  steps."  She  passed  her  arm  round  me  as  she 
spoke,  and  I  submitted  to  be  half  guided  and  half  carried 
across  the  room.  It  was  a  relief  to  lie  still  and  close  my 
eyes,  until  my  brain  ceased  to  whirl.  It  was  not  water, 
after  all,  she  gave  me,  but  I  took  it  readily  enough ;  and 
then  she  sat  down  beside  me,  not  touching  me,  but  waiting 
until  the  quiet  and  silence  and  the  cool  evening  air  blow- 
ing on  me  should  give  me  back  strength. 

By  and  by  she  closed  the  window  and  sat  down  again, 
and  I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  at  her.     I  felt  I  could 

158 


WHY  DID  YOU  LEAVE  US 

speak  more  calmly  now.  How  pale  she  was  as  she  smiled 
at  me. 

"  You  are  better  now,  darling." 

"  Yes,  I  am  better.  I  did  not  mean  to  trouble  you 
so,  but — but — but  I  cannot  believe  it." 

"  You  will  believe  it  presently,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  There  is  something  else  I  should  like  to  show  you 
before  we  talk,  it  may  make  things  more  real  to  you  " ; 
and  then  she  went  to  an  escritoire  and  took  out  a  book 
and  a  small  leather  case  and  placed  them  in  my  lap. 

I  took  up  the  book  first.  It  was  a  Bible,  bound  beau- 
tifully and  curiously  in  white  vellum,  with  an  antique 
clasp.  I  turned  to  the  title-page,  and  recognised  my 
father's  handwriting:  "To  my  wife,  Yvonne  Darnell,  on 
our  wedding  day,  from  her  loving  husband,  Philip  Eger- 
ton  Darnell."     The  date  was  just  eighteen  years  before. 

I  closed  the  volume  and  opened  the  case.  It  con- 
tained a  bracelet,  a  band  of  solid  gold,  with  a  monogram 
in  diamonds,  the  initials  Y.  L.  D.  evidently  standing  for 
Yvonne  Lesbia  Darnell.  But  it  was  not  this  which 
attracted  my  eyes ;  it  was  a  slip  of  paper  with  my  father's 
handwriting  on  it :  "  To  my  darling  wife,  on  the  birth 
of  our  child,  Githa,  from  her  devoted  husband,"  and 
there  was  the  date  of  my  birthday  seventeen  years  ago. 

She — my  mother  I  suppose  I  must  call  her — saw 
that  I  understood.  Then  she  carried  them  away  and 
carefully  locked  them  up ;  then  in  the  same  still  way, 
as  if  she  were  performing  some  mechanical  but  necessary 
task,  she  placed  the  framed  picture  before  me. 

"  It  was  taken  just  after  my  marriage,"  she  said 
simply. 

I  gazed  at  it  as  though  I  were  in  a  dream.  Could 
that  beautiful  beaming  face,  so  radiant  with  happiness, 


159 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

be  the  image  of  my  mother  in  her  girlhood — the  grace- 
ful figure  in  the  bridal  dress,  the  dark  hair  with  orange 
blossom  crowning  it  like  a  diadem,  the  sweet,  womanly 
expression !  Involuntarily  I  turned  to  the  sad-eyed 
woman  beside  me,  with  her  grey  hair.  The  face  was  still 
beautiful,  though  there  were  lines  of  suffering  and  self- 
repression  legibly  traced  upon  it.  Something  seemed  to 
stir  in  my  breast  like  a  live  thing  as  I  looked.  Was  it 
a  sort  of  remorseful  tenderness? 

"  Do  you  believe  it  now,  Githa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so  " ;  but  my  voice  seemed  strange 
and  a  little  cold.  "  You  have  never  told  me  anything 
that  is  not  absolutely  true,  and  if  you  say  that  you  are 
my  mother " 

"  Most  assuredly  I  am  your  mother,  and  you  are  my 
dear  and  only  child,  my  little  Githa,  whom  I  carried  in 
my  arms  as  an  infant  and  who  slept  in  my  bosom."  Her 
eyes  were  soft  with  maternal  feeling,  but  at  that  moment 
I  could  not  respond. 

"  Why  did  you  leave  us  ?  "  I  asked.  Perhaps  I  asked 
the  question  too  abruptly,  for  I  saw  her  wince  as  though 
she  had  received  a  blow.    She  was  white  as  death  now. 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  whispered,  "  but  surely  I  must  know 
everything,  or  how  can  I  understand?  Mothers  do  not 
leave  their  children  without  a  cause ;  and  then  there  is 
father.  If  you  loved  us,  why  did  you  go  away  and  leave 
us?"  For  until  this  question  was  answered,  there  could 
be  no  peace  for  me. 

"  Githa !  "  she  said  solemnly  and  tenderly,  "  do  not 
be  too  hard  on  your  poor  mother,  even  if  you  misjudge 
me,  as  I  fear  you  must.  Believe  this  one  thing — I  loved 
your  father  dearly,  and " — here  a  spasm  of  suffering 
crossed  her  face — "  and  I  love  him  still,  and  you  are  my 
own  dear  child." 

i6o 


WHY  DID  YOU  LEAVE  US 

"  And  yet  you  left  us !  "  and  again  she  shrank  at  my 
reproachful  tone. 

"  Githa,  you  are  simply  torturing  me.  What  am  I 
to  say  to  you  ?  You  are  too  young  to  understand  yet  how 
a  woman  of  my  temperament  can  suffer.  A  few  years 
after  we  were  married,  my  happiness  was  wrecked.  Your 
father  did  me  a  great  wrong — no,  do  not  be  afraid,  Githa, 
I  would  rather  die  than  tell  my  child  that  story ;  but — 
and  herein  lies  the  tragedy — I  could  not  forgive,  and 
my  happy  trust  was  gone,  and  so  I  told  him  that  we  must 
live  apart." 

"  And  you  left  me  to  him  ?  "  Then  the  tears  welled 
slowly  to  her  eyes. 

"  It  nearly  killed  me  to  do  it — you  were  such  a 
darling,  Githa,  and  I  was  so  proud  of  you,  and  so  was 
he.  I  had  meant  to  take  you,  and  he  had  offered  no 
objection.  He  said  the  wrong  lay  at  his  door,  and  he 
would  take  his  punishment  like  a  man — he  was  always  so 
generous.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  condone  even  a  crime ; 
but  my  nature  is  harder,  I  cannot  easily  forgive.  When 
I  told  him  I  never  wished  to  see  his  face  again,  I  fully 
meant  what  I  said." 

I  felt  sure  she  had  forgotten  to  whom  she  was  speak- 
ing ;  that  recollection  of  the  past  trouble  was  so  vivid 
and  acute  that  it  had  for  a  moment  thrown  her  off 
her  balance,  or  she  would  not  have  revealed  so  much. 
What  wrong  could  father  have  done  her  that  she  should 
desire  never  to  see  his  face?  The  sick  feeling  came  rush- 
ing over  me  agin,  and  I  shielded  my  face  with  my  hands. 
Whatever  it  was,  I  should  never  know — I  would  suffer 
no  one  to  tell  me.  I  registered  that  vow  in  my  heart. 
She  went  on  speaking,  and  there  was  a  passionate  insist- 
ence in  her  voice. 

"  I  thank  Heaven,  Githa,  that  you  have  your  father's 
II  i6i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

temperament,  not  mine.  If  I  had  been  differently  con- 
stituted, more  like  other  women,  and  the  grace  of  for- 
giveness had  been  mine,  the  crooked  might  have  been 
made  straight,  and  the  gaping  wounds  might  have  healed 
in  time ;  but  I  could  not  fight  against  my  nature,  and 
peace  was  impossible,  so  I  fled." 

"  And  you  left  me  behind."  It  was  strange  how  I 
harped  on  this  one  string.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  I 
was  almost  merciless  in  my  pain,  but  she  was  very  patient 
with  me. 

"  Let  me  try  and  tell  you  how  it  happened,"  she  said 
slowly.  "  I  meant  to  take  you ;  I  had  insisted  on  my 
maternal  rights,  and  I  fully  intended  to  have  my  way. 
My  will  was  strong  even  then,  Githa.  The  evening 
before  I  left  home  I  went  up  into  the  nursery  to  give 
some  order  for  the  morrow,  but  the  nurse  had  gone  down 
to  her  supper.  The  fire  had  burnt  low,  and  the  room 
was  almost  dark  ;  but  I  could  discern  a  kneeling  figure  by 
your  cot,  and  as  I  paused  on  the  threshold  I  heard  a  man's 
bitter  sobs.     Thank  God  that  you  never  heard  them ! 

"  It  was  Philip — it  was  your  father — and  as  I  was 
about  to  steal  away,  unwilling  to  intrude  on  his  grief,  I 
heard  him  say,  '  My  punishment  is  too  great  for  me  to 
bear!  I  have  lost  my  wife's  love,  and  now  I  must  lose 
my  little  child  ! ' 

"  His  voice  had  awakened  you — you  were  always 
a  light  sleeper, — and  as  a  sudden  flame  shot  up  I  saw 
you  stretch  out  your  little  arms  and  clasp  his  neck — 
'  Don't  kye.  Da,  baby  loves  'oo.'  Ah,  even  then  you 
loved  him  best,  Githa.  You  would  leave  my  arms  gladly 
to  spring  into  his,  and  he  just  worshipped  you. 

"  That  night  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  not 
inflict  this  suffering  on  him — that  the  sacrifice  should 
be  mine.     I  think  death  would  have  been  easier  to  me. 

162 


WHY  DID  YOU  LEAVE  US 

The  next  morning  I  noticed  a  grey  streak  in  my  hair. 
I  came  down  here  and  left  you  behind  me,  and  I  wrote 
a  letter  to  your  father  with  my  conditions.  They  were 
these: — I  wished  your  young  life  to  be  untroubled  and 
happy ;  and  until  you  attained  womanhood — and  I  fixed 
your  present  age — it  was  my  one  prayer  and  desire  that 
you  should  not  know  that  I  was  your  mother.  I  was  to 
be  Cousin  Yvonne  and  nothing  else.  The  rest  of  my 
stipulations  you  can  guess.  I  was  to  be  kept  informed 
of  all  that  concerned  you,  and  you  were  to  come  to  me 
twice  a  year.  If  these  conditions  were  faithfully  ful- 
filled, I  promised  that  you  should  remain  with  him. 
But  how  I  have  watched  over  you  from  a  distance ;  how 
I  have  prayed  for  you  as  I  could  never  pray  for  myself; 
how  loyally  your  father  has  carried  out  my  wishes  in 
spite  of  his  strong  disapproval — all  this  it  is  needless  to 
say.  My  object  has  been  attained ;  your  childhood  and 
youth  have  been  unshadowed ;  you  and  your  father  have 
been  perfectly  happy  in  each  other's  society." 

"  Oh  no,  he  is  not  as  happy  as  you  think,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  If  you  knew  how  sad  he  looks  sometimes "  but  she 

put  up  her  hand  to  stop  me. 

"  Hush !  not  a  word  of  that ;  I  cannot  bear  it.  And 
now,  can  you  judge  me  more  mercifully,  Githa?" 

I  stretched  out  my  hands  to  her  with  the  one  word 
she  so  craved  to  hear — "  Mother."  She  had  made  this 
heroic  sacrifice  for  my  father's  sake.  She  who  was 
sinned  against  had  gone  away  with  empty  hands  and  a 
breaking  heart,  and  yet,  though  it  was  not  for  her  child 
to  judge  her,  there  was  a  flaw  in  her  nobility — the  grace 
of  forgiveness  was  lacking. 

"  Mother,  I  did  not  know,  but  I  always  loved  you." 
Then,  as  she  stooped  over  me,  I  laid  my  face  against  her 
arm,  and  for  a  little  time  we  were  silent.     How  quiet  it 

163 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

was  in  that  spring  twilight,  and  how  strangely  weak  I 
felt.  It  would  take  time  to  recover  from  such  a  shock. 
But  how  good  she  was  to  me.  She  brought  me  food  and 
coaxed  me  to  eat ;  but  I  knew  she  touched  nothing  her- 
self ;  then  she  persuaded  me  to  go  to  bed,  and  helped  me 
in  her  quiet,  efficient  way.  I  was  still  a  little  giddy,  and 
I  think  she  knew  it,  for  she  would  not  leave  me  until  my 
head  was  on  the  pillow.  I  heard  Sydney  come  in ;  but  she 
had  evidently  been  told  not  to  come  near  me,  for  she  went 
to  her  own  room.  I  could  hear  her  walking  on  tiptoe 
past  my  door.  But  I  could  not  rest,  and  sleep  was  far 
from  my  eyes.  There  was  something  I  wanted  to  say 
to  my  mother,  and  I  felt  certain  that  she  was  only  waiting 
for  the  household  to  be  in  their  rooms  before  she  came 
to  me  again ;  and  I  was  right. 

The  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  had  just  chimed 
half-past  ten  when  she  came,  carrying  a  shaded  lamp 
in  her  hand.  She  sat  down  beside  me  and  looked  at  me 
anxiously. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  not  sleeping,  dearest.  Is 
there  anything  specially  troubling  you — something  that 
you  want  to  ask  me  ?  " 

Then  I  clutched  at  her  hand  a  little  peevishly.  "Yes," 
I  said,  "  I  cannot  rest ;  I  shall  never  rest  until  I  have 
seen  father.  Mother,  you  will  not  think  me  unkind,  but 
I  must  go  to  him;  I  must  speak  to  him,  and  hear  him 
speak  to  me." 

Perhaps  she  saw  that  I  was  a  little  excited,  for  she 
seemed  bent  on  soothing  me. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  my  child,  I  will  not  keep  you  if 
you  desire  to  leave  me.    When  do  you  wish  to  go?  " 

"Will  you  let  me  go  home  to-morrow?"  And  as 
she  drew  back  with  a  hurt,  pained  look,  I  laid  my  cheek 
against  her  hand.     "  Mother,  you  are  so  good  and  kind 

164 


WHY  DID  YOU  LEAVE  US 

that  I  am  sure  you  will  understand.  I  cannot  bear  it 
somehow  until  I  have  seen  him.  I  will  come  back ; 
indeed,  I  will  come  back  " ;  and  my  voice  rose  in  pas- 
sionate entreaty. 

"  When  will  you  come  back,  Githa?  " 

"Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  that  to-night ;  but  if  he  will, 
it  shall  be  in  a  few  days.  Mother,  you  will  not  be  hard 
with  me?    You  know  I  would  not  grieve  you  for  worlds." 

"  I  know  it  well,  darling,  and  I  trust  you  fully.  Yes, 
you  shall  go  to-morrow,  and  Rebecca  shall  travel  with 
you  and  put  you  into  a  cab ;  there  is  no  need  for  her  to 
go  to  the  house." 

"  Oh  no !  there  is  no  need  for  that." 

"  Then  we  will  consider  it  settled,  and  there  shall  be 
no  more  talk.  You  will  leave  your  things  here,  and  you 
will  come  back  to  me  as  soon  as  you  can."  There  was  a 
beseeching,  wistful  look  in  the  beautiful  eyes  which 
touched  me  inexpressibly.     Then  she  kissed  me  tenderly. 

"  Now  you  must  sleep  like  a  good  child,  to  get 
strength  for  your  journey  " ;  and  she  would  have  left  me, 
but  I  held  her  fast,  and  though  I  said  nothing,  I  think 
she  knew  how  my  heart  thanked  and  blessed  her  for 
this  concession  to  my  wishes. 


165 


XVII 

THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 


For  all  the  souls  on  earth  that  live 
To  be  forgiven  must  forgive. 
Forgive   him   seventy  times   and   seven  1 
For  all  the  blessed  souls  in  Heaven 
Are  both   Forgivers  and   Forgiven. 

Tennyson. 

'Tis  but  brother's  speech  we  need, 

Speech  where  an  accent's  change  gives  each 

The  other's  soul. 

Browning. 

My  mother's  promise  that  I  should  go  home  the  follow- 
ing day  had  somewhat  soothed  and  quieted  me;  but  still 
sleep  was  far  from  my  eyes,  and  for  hours  I  lay  open- 
eyed  in  the  darkness,  thinking  of  this  strange  thing  that 
had  come  to  my  knowledge.  For  it  seemed  to  me  as 
though  my  little  world  were  in  chaos.  Old  landmarks 
were  moved.  There  were  curious  upheavals  and  mys- 
terious workings  of  unseen  forces.  Old  faces  looked  at 
me  with  new  meaning  in  their  eyes.  My  mother's  grave 
was  a  figment  of  my  own  imagination.  The  woman  who 
had  given  me  birth  had  held  me  this  very  night  in  her 
warm,  living  arms,  and  had  caressed  me  with  maternal 
tenderness,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  my  gratitude,  I  had 
remained  cold  and  stunned. 

Much  as  I  loved  her,  and  until  this  evening  I  never 
guessed  how  dear  she  was  to  me,  my  thoughts  had  turned 

.    i66 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

from  her  to  my  father  with  a  passion  of  longing  and  pity 
that  almost  broke  my  heart.  For  the  veil  had  been  torn 
down  from  my  eyes.  He  had  done  some  wrong,  this 
beloved  father,  some  grievous  wrong,  which  had  driven 
her  away  from  her  home  a  lonely,  embittered  woman, 
and  spoiled  her  life.  He  had  sinned,  and  she  had  not 
forgiven ;  and  yet  for  his  dear  sake  she  had  made  the 
noblest  sacrifice  that  a  woman  could  make — she  had  left 
him  her  child. 

Alas !  alas !  my  idolised  father  was  no  longer  the 
stainless,  faultless  being  that  I  had  imagined  him  to  be. 
The  shadow  of  wrong-doing  had  dimmed  the  brightness 
of  the  image.  He  was  not  perfect,  but  he  was  my  father, 
and  I  could  only  love  him.  Was  it  for  his  only  child 
to  cast  a  stone  at  him? 

My  breast  heaved  with  sobs  and  the  tears  fell  fast, 
as  I  held  out  my  arms  in  the  darkness.  The  dumb  cry 
and  longing  for  him  was  so  great  that  I  felt  he  must 
know  it.  My  one  thought  was  to  go  to  him  and  comfort 
him,  to  tell  him  that  this  thing  should  never  come  between 
us.  Again  and  again  I  rehearsed  over  to  myself  the 
speech  I  would  make  to  him.  Poor,  foolish  child !  as 
though  my  stammering  tongue  would  have  uttered  the 
words.  "  Father,  it  is  past  and  gone,  let  us  bury  it  as 
we  bury  some  dead  thing.  Do  not  even  speak  to  me 
about  it.  I  know  nothing.  I  will  know  nothing.  I  love 
you  both,  and  I  will  only  remember  that  I  am  your  child 
and  you  are  my  father."  No,  no.  Was  it  likely  that 
such  a  speech  would  ever  get  spoken? 

But  in  the  darkness  I  registered  a  second  time  that 
filial  vow,  that  no  power  on  earth  should  compel  me 
to  know  the  sad  secret  that  had  divided  two  loving  hearts. 
My  father  should  never  be  shamed  in  his  child's  eyes. 
The  sacred  silence  of  death  should  invest  it.     It  should 

167 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

be  like  a  grave  dug  deeply  and  hidden  away  in  a  secret 
place. 

"  What  is  it  to  me,"  I  cried  inwardly,  "  if  you  have 
done  wrong,  my  darling ;  you  have  repented  and  suffered, 
and  I  know  God  has  forgiven  you,  and  one  day  perhaps 
my  mother  will  forgive  you  too,  for  she  loves  you  still." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  faint  twittering  of  birds 
under  my  eaves,  as  though  some  wandering  night  thing 
had  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  the  nest,  and  as  I  lis- 
tened, and  thought  of  the  All  Father's  care  without  which 
"  not  even  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground,"  a  sudden  idea 
came  to  me,  as  though  some  pitying  angel  had  whispered 
it  in  my  ear.  "  What  if  it  should  be  my  mission,  my  most 
sweet  mission,  to  unite  those  two  suffering  hearts !  "  and 
words  of  prayer  rose  to  my  lips,  that  He  who  loved  His 
earthly  mother  would  vouchsafe  me  this  great  blessing. 

The  thought  seemed  to  comfort  me,  and  I  lay  and 
pondered  over  it,  and  hugged  it  closely  to  me,  as  though 
it  were  some  priceless  thing,  and  yet  I  felt  instinctively 
that  the  task  would  not  be  easy,  and  the  difficulty  would 
be  chiefly  with  my  mother. 

With  all  her  generosity  and  strong  affection  her 
nature  resented  bitterly  any  great  injury.  It  was  not 
easy  for  her  to  forgive.  I  know  how  she  mourned  over 
this  failing;  how  this  hardness  had  grown  with  the 
unhappy  years  and  taken  strong  root.  What  was  it  she 
had  said  to  me  this  evening? — "  If  I  had  been  differently 
constituted,  more  like  other  women,  and  the  grace  of 
forgiveness  had  been  mine,  the  crooked  might  have  been 
made  straight,  and  the  gaping  wound  healed  in  time,  but 
I  could  not  fight  against  my  nature."  My  poor  mother, 
I  felt  this  was  true ;  but  I  had  my  father's  temperament, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  a  most  sad  and  pitiful  thing  that  so 
noble  a  nature  should  be  lacking  in  this  one  virtue. 

i68 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  To  err  is  human,  to  forgive  divine,"  I  murmured 
somewhat  drowsily,  and  again,  "  the  Httle  hearts  that 
know  not  how  to  forgive,"  but  my  mother  was  a  large- 
hearted  woman. 

I  was  spent  with  weary  thoughts  and  long  wakeful- 
ness, but  as  the  dim  grey  of  the  glimmering  dawn  stole 
into  the  room  I  fell  into  a  restless  sleep,  and  a  strange, 
half-waking  dream  came  to  me.  I  thought  I  was  in  a 
green,  misty  place,  under  clouded  skies.  There  were 
trees  and  flowers,  but  they  were  somewhat  colourless, 
and  though  the  by-paths  were  pleasant,  there  was  little 
light.  There  were  people  walking  to  and  fro  and  over  the 
grass,  and  many  were  gathered  before  a  great  gateway 
strongly  barred  ;  but  one  could  see  through  the  bars  a 
fair  and  most  lovely  country  bathed  in  sunshine,  with 
groups  of  people  in  shining  white  dresses,  and  faces  of 
surpassing  beauty.  I  noticed  that  those  who  stood  on 
this  side  the  gate  wore  grey  garments,  and  their  faces 
were  grave  and  wistful ;  but  when  I  spoke  to  them,  and 
asked  why  the  gate  was  shut  so  that  one  could  not  pass 
through,  they  only  shook  their  heads  sadly  and  moved 
away,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

Now  there  stood  close  to  the  gate  on  the  other  side 
a  man,  very  stately  and  fair  to  look  upon,  and  as  I 
gazed  at  him  in  too  much  awe  to  speak,  he  smiled  at  me 
so  graciously  that  I  whispered,  "Are  you  an  angel?" 
and  he  inclined  his  head. 

"  I  am  the  Angel  of  Forgiveness,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
dwell  in  this  pleasant  land  which  they  call  the  Land  of 
Peace,  and  where  our  Lord  loves  to  walk  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening.  For  here  are  His  chosen  ones,  the  Peace- 
makers, and  those  '  who  have  come  out  of  great  tribula- 
tion, and  have  washed  their  robes  in  the  blood  of  the 
Lamb,'  and  like  their  Master  and  the  holy  Stephen,  have 

169 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

forgiven  their  murderers,  and  dealt  kindly  with  those 
who  have  done  them  wrong.  Therefore  shall  they  dwell 
in  eternal  sunshine,  and  follow  their  Lord  when  He  goes 
to  gather  His  lilies,  and  the  secret  of  everlasting  peace 
is  theirs ;  for  in  their  earthly  days  they  loved  much,  and 
showed  mercy  on  the  unmerciful." 

When  I  woke  my  room  was  flooded  with  the  early 
morning  sunshine.  Was  it  a  dream  or  a  vision,  I  won- 
dered ;  and  then  I  thought  that  one  day  I  would  tell  it 
to  my  mother — but  not  now. 

Mentor  has  more  than  once  called  me  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  but  it  is  perfectly  true  that  at  more  than  one 
crisis  of  my  life — at  moments  of  abnormal  excitement — • 
I  have  had  dreams  so  strange  and  suggestive  that  I  have 
written  them  down ;  but  I  never  again  had  such  a  dream 
as  this — the  remembrance  of  the  dark  gateway  watched 
over  by  the  Angel  of  Peace  haunted  me  for  many  a  day. 

When  Rebecca  brought  me  my  morning  cup  of  tea 
I  thought  she  looked  at  me  a  little  strangely,  but  she  was 
a  silent  woman,  and  rarely  spoke  if  she  could  help  it. 
She  must  have  carried  a  bad  report  of  my  looks,  for  ten 
minutes  later  my  mother  came  to  me  in  her  grey  qviilted 
dressing-gown,  and  the  thick  masses  of  her  grey  hair 
falling  below  her  waist — such  beautiful  hair — shining 
like  silver  in  the  sunlight ;  but  how  pale  and  sunken  her 
features  looked  in  the  strong  light. 

"  Rebecca  thinks  that  you  have  slept  badly,  Githa," 
she  said  as  she  kissed  me.  "  I  would  have  come  to  you 
if  I  had  known  that.  More  than  once  I  listened  at  your 
door,  but  could  hear  no  movement."  There  was  a  new 
note  of  gentleness  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  was  nearly  morning  before  I  closed  my  eyes," 
I  returned,  "  but  I  have  had  some  sleep  since  then.  You 
have  slept  badly  yourself,  mother."     I  almost  whispered 

170 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

the  last  word,  but  she  heard  it,  and  a  faint  tinge  of  colour 
came  to  her  face. 

"  That  is  nothing  new,"  she  said  sadly ;  "  but  it  is 
different  for  you,  dearest.  You  must  just  lie  still,  and 
Rebecca  shall  bring  you  your  breakfast." 

I  hesitated  a  moment.  I  felt  strangely  weak,  and 
my  head  was  beginning  to  ache.  There  was  no  hurry, 
as  I  had  decided  to  take  an  afternoon  train.  My  father 
would  not  be  home  until  five,  and  I  was  anxious  to  avoid 
Mardie's  questionings  until  I  had  seen  him.  Very  likely 
if  I  tried  to  dress  myself  my  headache  would  increase. 

"  You  had  better  take  my  advice,  Githa,"  she  went 
on.  "  I  will  open  your  window,  and  the  fresh  air  will  do 
your  head  good.  Close  your  eyes  and  try  and  get  a  little 
sleep,  and  I  will  tell  Sydney  not  to  disturb  you  " ;  and 
then  she  brought  me  a  warm  wrap  and  threw  up  the 
window,  and  I  was  too  weary  to  argue  the  point. 

I  think  I  slept  a  little  before  my  breakfast  tray  arrived, 
and  my  head  no  longer  throbbed  so  painfully ;  and  by 
the  time  Sydney  came  to  me  I  felt  somewhat  better, 
though  she  gave  a  shocked  exclamation  when  she  saw 
me. 

"  Why,  Githa,  I  do  not  know  whether  you  or  Aunt 
Yvonne  looks  the  worst,  but  you  both  seem  to  me  on 
the  brink  of  an  illness." 

"  How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense,  Sydney !  I  have 
not  slept  well,  that  is  all." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  Aunt  Yvonne  says,  but " — 
with  a  wistful  look — "  there  is  more  behind.  I  am  sure 
of  that.  Why  are  you  going  home,  Githa,  when  you  have 
only  just  come?  Aunt  Yvonne  says  that  she  will  explain 
things  when  you  are  gone,  but  it  is  very  hard  to  wait." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Sydney  dear,  but  I  am  too  tired 
to  talk  now." 

"  That  means  that  I  am  to  ask  no  more  questions. 
171 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Never  mind,  you  poor  thing,  you  shall  not  be  worried, 
and  I  will  be  patient  for  a  few  hours ;  but  if  any  trouble 
has  come  to  you  or  Aunt  Yvonne  I  know  you  will  not 
leave  me  in  the  dark  longer  than  you  can  help." 

"  No  indeed,  you  may  be  sure  of  that  " ;  and  then  she 
gave  a  gentle  sigh,  and  stole  away  on  tiptoe.  That  was 
so  like  Sydney.  She  was  always  so  ready  to  efface  her- 
self, to  stand  aside  until  those  she  loved  needed  her.  But 
she  was  not  happy  about  either  of  us,  I  could  see  that. 

I  lay  and  brooded  heavily  until  it  was  time  to  rise 
and  dress.  When  I  saw  myself  in  the  glass  I  felt  that 
Sydney's  evident  anxiety  was  fully  justified.  I  certainly 
looked  ill.  Even  my  lips  were  pale,  and  there  were  ink 
stains  under  my  eyes.  Was  I  only  seventeen,  I  wondered 
— sweet  seventeen  ?     I  felt  I  had  grown  years  older ! 

When  I  went  downstairs  my  mother  made  no  com- 
ment on  my  appearance,  probably  because  Sydney  was  in 
the  room.  She  only  remarked  that  luncheon  was  a 
little  earlier  than  usual,  and  that  as  I  had  had  a  poor 
breakfast  she  hoped  I  would  do  my  best  to  make  a 
good  meal ;  but  she  certainly  did  not  set  me  an  example. 
Sydney  watched  us  furtively,  and  tried  to  cover  up  our 
silence  by  cheerful  remarks. 

When  I  went  to  my  room  to  put  on  my  hat  my 
mother  followed  me. 

"  You  are  not  fit  to  go,  Githa,"  she  said  in  a  troubled 
tone,  "  but  it  would  be  cruel  to  keep  you — I  can  see  that." 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  spare  me,  mother." 

"  I  do  so  most  unwillingly,  I  assure  you,  and  I  shall 
certainly  not  have  a  moment's  peace  until  you  come  back. 
No,  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that,"  rather  remorsefully, 
as  she  saw  my  face ;  "  I  shall  live  in  hopes  of  your  coming 
back  very  soon." 

"  You  may  depend  that  I  shall  come  as  soon  as  I 
172 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

can."    Then  in  a  whisper,  "  Have  you  any  message  for 
father  ?  "  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  You  are  all  the  message  I  need  send.  I  have  carried 
out  my  part  of  the  compact  faithfully.  Now  I  hear  the 
carriage,  and  Rebecca  is  ready."  She  embraced  me  hur- 
riedly as  she  spoke,  and  then  half  pushed  me  away.  I 
think,  nay  I  am  sure,  that  she  could  not  trust  herself 
longer  over  the  leave-talking.  She  did  not  accompany 
me  downstairs,  but  as  we  drove  away  I  saw  her  standing 
at  the  landing  window,  and  as  I  looked  at  her  she  waved 
her  hand  and  hurried  away.  Poor  mother !  she  looked 
like  a  Mater  Dolorosa  at  that  moment. 

Rebecca  took  no  notice  of  me,  and  I  was  at  leisure 
to  indulge  in  my  own  thoughts.  But  they  were  to  be 
interrupted  in  a  most  unexpected  way,  for  just  as  we 
were  taking  our  places  in  the  train  the  guard  opened  the 
door  for  a  gentleman. 

"  All  the  other  carriages  are  crowded,  sir,"  he  said 
civilly,  "  and  I  am  sure  this  young  lady  will  not  object  " ; 
and  to  my  astonishment  I  saw  it  was  Mr.  Carlyon.  He 
looked  equally  surprised  when  he  recognised  me. 

Rebecca  gave  him  up  her  seat,  and  ensconced  herself 
at  the  other  end  with  her  book — she  was  a  great  reader, — 
and  Mr.  Carlyon  settled  himself  in  the  opposite  corner. 
But  as  he  bent  forward  to  speak  to  me  his  manner 
expressed  some  concern. 

"  You  are  surely  not  leaving  Bayfield  already.  Miss 
Darnell?  I  understood  you  had  come  for  a  fortnight 
at  least." 

"  I  am  coming  back  in  a  few  days — at  least  I  hope 
so.  I  only  want  to  speak  to  my  father.  I  wish  to  consult 
him  about  something,  and  I  shall  finish  my  visit  later  on." 
I  tried  to  speak  naturally,  but  I  am  sure  I  failed,  for  his 
face  became  rather  grave. 

173 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  then  he  leant  for- 
ward again.  He  was  evidently  unwilling  that  Rebecca 
should  hear  him,  but  there  was  no  danger  of  that ;  she 
was  already  absorbed  in  her  book,  and  Mr.  Carlyon 
spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  are  in  some  trouble,  I  fear,  or  you  are  not  well. 
Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you?  "  His  voice  was 
so  kind  that  the  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes,  and  I  dared  not 
trust  myself  to  speak,  but  again  he  understood  me. 

"  No,  do  not  answer  me,  I  can  see  for  myself,  and  you 
are  not  fit  to  talk.  I  am  going  to  read  my  paper,  and  if 
you  will  take  my  advice  you  will  just  close  your  eyes  and 
try  to  rest."  I  think  I  must  have  looked  at  him  a  little 
pitifully  when  he  said  that,  for  he  went  on  very  gently, 
"  One  can  rest  even  in  trouble,  only,"  in  a  still  lower 
voice,  "  be  careful  to  hold  very  tightly  to  your  heavenly 
Father's  hand,  or  you  may  lose  yourself  and  get  hurt  " ; 
and  then  he  unfolded  his  paper  as  though  he  were  anxious 
to  shield  me  from  observation. 

No,  I  was  not  fit  to  talk,  my  nerves  had  not  yet  recov- 
ered themselves,  but  the  tears  I  shed  were  quiet  and 
healing;  somehow  that  silent  sympathy  seemed  to  soothe 
and  comfort  me,  and  my  head  felt  less  strained.  Mr. 
Carlyon  left  me  undisturbed.  Once  he  closed  the  window 
in  a  tunnel,  and  another  time  he  touched  my  arm  and 
put  a  smelling-bottle  into  my  hand.  *'  It  is  wonderfully 
efficacious ;  please  try  it,  Miss  Darnell,  it  will  do  your 
head  good,"  and,  as  I  thanked  him  languidly,  he  took  up 
his  paper  again. 

At  the  end  of  our  journey  Rebecca  came  to  me.  "  I 
am  to  put  you  into  a  cab,  miss,  and  then  my  mistress 
told  me  that  I  was  to  take  the  next  train  back  " ;  but 
before  I  could  answer  Mr.  Carlyon  interposed. 


174 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

'*'  Forgive  me  for  interfering,  but  you  are  surely  not 
going  to  drive  to  Cheyne  Walk  alone." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  returned  listlessly,  "  I  know  the  way 
quite  well  " ;  but  he  hardly  seemed  to  listen. 

"  Will  you  tell  your  mistress,"  he  observed,  address- 
ing Rebecca,  "  that  I  shall  drive  with  Miss  Darnell  and 
see  her  safely  home ;  I  think  she  will  be  glad  to  know 
that  " ;  and  then,  without  asking  my  leave,  he  called  up 
a  hansom  and  put  me  in  it,  and  quietly  placed  himself 
beside  me ;  and  when  the  driver  had  received  his  instruc- 
tions from  Rebecca  and  we  had  left  the  station,  he  said 
in  rather  an  apologetic  tone — 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  taking  too  great  liberty,  but 
if  you  could  see  yourself  at  this  moment  you  would  know 
that  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  I  murmured ;  "but  indeed  there 
was  no  need  to  trouble  you." 

"  It  is  no  question  of  my  trouble,"  he  returned. 
"  Besides,  you  are  not  taking  me  much  out  of  my  way, 
and  I  should  not  have  been  comfortable  if  I  had  not  seen 
you  safely  home ;  I  only  wish  I  could  do  more  for  you." 

"  You  have  done  a  great  deal,"  for  I  wanted  him  to 
know  how  grateful  I  felt.  "  I  am  behaving  rather  child- 
ishly I  fear,  Mr.  Carlyon,  but  I  have  had  a  shock — 
perhaps  I  ought  not  to  call  it  a  trouble — but  I  hardly 
know  how  I  feel." 

"  Perhaps  I  understand  more  than  you  think,"  and 
Mr.  Carlyon  spoke  in  rather  a  significant  tone.  "  One 
has  strange  intuitions  sometimes,  and  one  has  come  to 
me  this  afternoon — no,  I  cannot  explain ;  another  time 
perhaps,  when  you  are  less  confused  and  unhappy." 

"  It  is  just  that,"  I  returned  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"  I  am  so  bewildered  that  I  hardly  know  whether  I  am 
in  trouble  or  not — it  would  not  be  right  to  tell  you  about 

175 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

it ;  but  I  think  you  could  have  helped  me,  because  you 
have  been  in  trouble  yourself." 

"  You  are  right,"  in  a  low  tone.  "  But  I  trust  you 
may  be  spared  such  sorrow  as  I  have  known.  Mercifully 
the  wind  is  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb."  Then  with  a 
change  of  tone,  "  Do  you  remember  what  that  glorious 
old  heathen  Marcus  Aurelius  said,  '  We  are  born  to  be 
serviceable  to  one  another  '  ?  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  something,  Miss  Darnell :  if  I  can  ever  do  anything 
to  help  you  or  yours,  will  you  ask  me  to  do  it?  Here  we 
are  at  the  end  of  our  journey,  and  I  should  like  to  have 
that  promise."  In  spite  of  its  gentleness,  there  was  a 
touch  of  priestly  authority  in  his  voice  which  seemed 
to  thrill  me ;  but  although  our  acquaintance  had  been 
short,  I  felt  he  was  a  man  that  one  could  trust  absolutely, 
and  a  sudden  impulse  of  gratitude  made  me  put  out  my 
hand  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,  I  think  I  can  safely  promise  that ;  you 
have  been  very,  very  kind." 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head :  "  Then  there  is  noth- 
ing more  to  say  but  God  bless  you  " ;  and  then,  as  I  left 
him  and  went  up  the  steps,  he  waited  until  the  door  was 
open  before  he  re-entered  the  hansom,  and  Hallett  had 
closed  it  again  before  he  drove  away. 


176 


XVIII 
FATHER  AND  I 


To  have  suffered  much  is  like  knowing  many  languages ;  you 
have  learnt  to  understand  all,  and  to  make  yourself  intelligible 
to  all. — Anon. 

Add  not  more  trouble  to  a  heart  that  is  vexed. — Ecclesias- 

TICUS. 

When    God    puts    a    burden    upon    you 
He  puts  His  own  arm  underneath. 

Anon, 

I  SAW  a  surprised  and  almost  an  alarmed  expression  on 
Hallett's  face  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  me.  "  Miss 
Githa,"  he  exclaimed  with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  ser- 
vant, "  I  trust  there  is  nothing  wrong  that  has  brought 
you  back  so  sudden-like  " ;  but  I  shook  my  head. 

"  Has  my  father  come  home,  Hallett  ? "  I  asked 
presently. 

"  Yes  ma'am,  the  master  had  luncheon  at  home  to-day, 
and  I  have  just  taken  him  his  tea  in  the  library  "  ;  but 
here  he  stopped  abruptly,  for  the  sound  of  our  voices 
had  reached  father,  and  he  came  hastily  towards  us. 

"What  on  earth  does  this  mean,  Githa?"  he  said 
quite  sharply ;  "  you  have  come  home  alone,  without  even 
sending  me  a  telegram."  Then  his  manner  changed 
when  he  saw  my  face.  Perhaps  he  understood  that  I 
was  trembling  so  that  I  could  hardly  stand,  for  he  put 
his  arm  round  me  and  drew  me  into  the  library,  and  when 
12  177 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

poor  old   Hallett  would  have   followed  us   he   checked 
him. 

"  I  will  ring  if  I  want  anything ;  please  see  that  we 
are  not  disturbed  " ;  and  then  he  made  me  sit  down  in 
the  big  easy-chair,  and  helped  me  to  remove  my  hat  and 
veil ;  but  how  cold  his  hands  were !  and  he  looked  at  me 
anxiously. 

"  You  are  ill,  darling ;  I  have  never  seen  you  look  so 
pale.  Perhaps,  after  all,  we  had  better  send  for  Mrs. 
Marland,"  and  actually  his  hand  was  on  the  bell,  but  I 
stopped  him. 

"  No,  no,  I  want  no  one  but  you — no  one  but  you. 
Oh,  father,"  with  a  little  sob  I  could  not  restrain,  "  I 
was  obliged  to  come  home,  I  could  not  stay  away  another 
hour ;  I  only  wanted  this,"  laying  my  head  on  his  shoulder 
as  I  spoke,  "  and  to  tell  you  how  dearly,  how  dearly  I 
love  you."  I  am  sure  he  understood,  for  he  held  me 
very  closely  without  speaking;  but  his  dear  face  had 
grown  suddenly  wan  and  haggard. 

"  Does  this  mean  that  you  know  all,  Githa?  "  he  asked 
presently ;  his  voice  was  strained  and  a  little  hoarse. 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that  is  necessary  for  me  to  know," 
I  half  whispered. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  Do  not  keep  me  in  suspense, 
darling,  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  have  a  right  to  know  every- 
thing that  has  passed  between — you  and — her  " ;  and  his 
intense  anxiety  was  so  evident  that  it  nerved  me  to  make 
an  effort. 

"  I  will  try  to  tell  you,  father.  I  know  now,  though 
I  cannot  realise  it,  that  Cousin  Yvonne  is  my  mother. 
She  told  me  so  last  night  when  we  were  alone  together. 
I  think  the  shock  was  too  great,  for  it  made  me  quite  ill 
and  giddy,  but  she  was  so  dear  and  good  to  me." 

"  My  poor  little  Gipsy !  " 
178 


FATHER  AND  I 

"  I  could  not  believe  it  at  first ;  for  all  these  years  I 
have  thought  my  mother  was  dead." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  returned  almost  angrily,  "  but  it 
was  no  fault  of  mine  ;  I  told  Yvonne — your  mother  I  mean 
— that  we  should  be  acting  a  lie,  and  that  it  would  lead 
to  complications,  but  I  could  not  move  her." 

"  Father  dear,  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  if  I 
had  known." 

He  sighed  assent  to  this.  "  Well,  Githa,  what  else 
did  your  mother  tell  you?  " 

"  Only  this,  that  when  I  was  a  little  child  there  was 
trouble  between  you " ;  and  here  I  rested  my  cheek 
against  his  hand.  I  could  hardly  say  the  words,  but  I  knew 
he  was  determined  to  know  all — "  She  told  me  you  had 
done  her  some  wrong,  which  made  her  leave  home  "  ;  here 
I  heard  a  suppressed  groan,  and  hurried  on  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "  She  said  that  she  did  not  wish  to  tell  me — more, 
— and  that  she  had  meant  to  take  me  with  her,  but  at  the 
last  moment  her  heart  failed  her,  and  she  left  me  to  be  a 
comfort  to  you  in  your  loneliness." 

"  God  bless  her  for  that  deed  of  mercy  !  "  he  muttered, 
and  then  he  put  me  away  from  him,  and  his  face  worked 
with  emotion.  "  I  think  if  she  had  taken  you  I  should 
have  gone  mad  with  remorse  and  loneliness.  Child,  listen 
to  me  a  moment:  your  mother  is  a  good  woman,  she  is 
as  spotless  as  a  saint,  and  to  my  dying  day  I  shall  love 
and  honour  her,  although  that  marble  statue  beside  us 
is  not  so  hard  as  she  has  been  to  me.  O  my  God !  "  he 
continued  passionately,  "  I  know  too  well  that  I  wronged 
her,  but  good  women  have  forgiven  before  now ;  but 

when "  here  I  stopped  him  by  laying  my  hand  against 

his  lips, 

"  Father,  hush,  I  will  not  hear,  I  will  not — I  will 
not !  the  trouble,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  between  you  two, 

179 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

it  is  for  no  one  else  to  judge — certainly  not  your  child. 
Dearest,  dearest !  "  clasping  him  tightly  round  the  neck, 
"  if  you  look  like  that  you  will  break  my  heart.  If  you 
have  done  wrong,  you  have  repented  and  suffered!  All 
these  years  you  have  been  sad  and  lonely ;  you  have 
wanted  her,  and  hoped  that  she  would  come  back  to  us ! 
Oh,  father,  the  dearest  father  that  any  child  could  have, 
let  me  comfort  you  a  little,  for  I  know  from  her  own  lips 
that  my  mother  loves  you  still !  " 

He  did  not  answer — I  think  he  could  not ;  his  face 
was  hidden  in  his  hands,  and  his  strong  frame  was  shak- 
ing with  suppressed  emotion,  but  I  knelt  beside  him, 
clasping  him  silently  until  that  moment  of  agony  had 
passed.  If  only  she  had  seen  and  heard  him,  she  must 
have  forgiven  him ! 

"  Father,  I  do  not  think  I  could  love  you  more  than  I 
do  to-night ;  if  you  are  unhappy,  I  shall  be  unhappy  too." 

He  raised  his  head  when  I  said  that,  but  I  could  see 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  My  little  blessing,"  he 
said  tenderly,  and  then  I  crept  into  his  arms  and  for  a 
long  time  we  were  silent.  This  was  all  I  wanted — to  be 
near  him,  and  to  make  him  realise  that  not  even  this 
should  come  between  us. 

I  think  there  was  something  almost  sacramental  in 
that  long  peaceful  silence,  as  though  some  hallowed 
presence — perhaps  the  Angel  of  Forgiveness — was  stand- 
ing with  folded  wings  in  the  soft  evening  light.  I  was 
very  weary,  but  I  was  no  longer  giddy  and  confused.  A 
certain  clarity  of  vision  seemed  to  come  to  me.  If  ever 
a  woman  had  a  mission,  surely  Ihad  mine:  the  work  so 
difficult  in  the  doing,  and  yet  so  unutterably  sweet  and 
holy  to  a  daughter's  heart — the  bringing  back  the  wife 
and  mother  to  her  rightful  place  in  the  home. 

How  long  I  should  have  knelt  there  resting  against 
i8o 


FATHER  AND  I 

him  I  do  not  know;  only,  father  suddenly  remembered 
that  I  was  far  from  well,  and  needed  food  after  my  jour- 
ney. Tea  was  still  on  the  table,  but  no  one  had  touched 
it.  In  moments  of  intense  excitement  bodily  wants  are 
forgotten. 

"  My  poor  dear  Gipsy,  you  are  utterly  exhausted,  but 
it  is  too  late  for  tea  now.  It  is  just  dinner-time,  and 
we  are  neither  of  us  ready.  I  should  like  to  have  you 
with  me,  if  you  feel  fit  for  it."  And  of  course  I  assured 
him  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to  leave  him,  and 
then  we  went  upstairs  hand  in  hand. 

Mardie  met  me  at  my  bedroom  door.  Her  face  was 
full  of  concern. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  a  fretted  voice,  "  I  have 
been  nearly  distracted  all  these  hours  since  Hallett  told 
me  how  sadly  yovi  were  looking;  and  you  are  like  a 
ghost,  Miss  Githa,  surely,  and  your  eyes  twice  their 
size." 

"  Never  mind,  Mardie  dear,"  I  returned  in  a  weary 
voice.  "  I  am  too  tired  to  talk  to-night,  and  I  want  you 
to  help  me  get  ready  for  dinner." 

"  You  are  more  fit  for  bed,"  replied  the  good  creature 
in  a  vexed  tone ;  but  as  I  made  no  response  to  this — and 
indeed  I  knew  she  was  right — she  went  away  grumbling 
to  herself  about  the  blindness  of  people  who  were  half- 
killing  her  lamb ;  and  all  the  time  she  dressed  me  she  kept 
dropping  little  hints,  as  though  she  suspected  trouble,  but 
I  gave  her  no  opening,  only  just  before  I  went  downstairs 
I  said  to  her — 

"  Mardie  dear,  I  do  not  mean  to  be  unkind,  but  indeed 
I  cannot  talk  to-night  " ;  and  then  I  kissed  her,  and  she 
seemed  more  satisfied. 

Father  was  waiting  for  me.  "  Why  did  you  trouble 
to  dress  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  my  white  gown ;  and 

i8i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

then  the  gong  sounded,  and  we  went  into  the  dining- 
room.  To  my  rehef,  he  insisted  that  my  place  should  be 
changed,  and  that  I  should  sit  beside  him,  and  he  seemed 
scarcely  able  to  eat  his  dinner  for  watching  me.  Except 
a  word  or  two,  there  was  no  attempt  at  any  conversation, 
and  once  I  saw  Hallett  looking  at  his  master  with  evident 
uneasiness.  How  thankful  we  both  were  when  the  meal 
was  over  and  we  were  at  liberty  to  return  to  the  library. 

I  told  father  that  I  meant  to  stay  with  him  a  little,  but 
he  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  keep  you  up,  Gipsy, 
but  I  do  not  know  how  to  bring  myself  to  part  with 
you."  But,  after  all,  there  was  little  talk  between  us 
that  night ;  but  I  think  it  made  him  happier  to  know  that  I 
was  beside  him,  that  I  understood,  and  that  nothing  on 
earth  could  come  between  us. 

Mardie  was  waiting  for  me  when  I  got  upstairs.  I 
think  she  saw  how  spent  and  exhausted  I  was,  for  she 
waited  on  me  as  though  I  were  still  her  nursling,  and 
never  left  me  until  my  head  was  on  the  pillow. 

I  slept  like  a  worn-out  child  that  night,  and  felt  more 
like  my  old  self  when  I  woke  the  next  morning;  for  I 
was  young,  and  youth  is  synonymous  with  hope,  and  the 
spring  sunshine  was  flooding  the  room.  As  I  drank  my 
tea  Mardie  came  with  a  message  from  my  father:  he 
wanted  to  know  how  I  had  slept.  I  assured  her  quite 
cheerfully  that  I  was  much  better,  and  that  my  head  had 
ceased  to  ache;  but  she  did  not  appear  quite  satisfied. 
She  shook  her  head  in  rather  a  tragical  manner,  and  I 
knew  my  return  message  would  be  enriched  by  copious 
annotations  of  her  own. 

When  I  entered  the  breakfast-room  an  hour  later 
father  met  me,  and  taking  my  face  between  his  hands, 
looked  at  it  a  little  anxiously. 

182 


FATHER  AND  I 

"  You  have  haunted  me  the  greater  part  of  the  night, 
Gipsy, '  he  said  gently,  and  there  was  a  tired  look  about 
his  eyes  which  told  me  he  had  not  slept  well.  "  I  could 
not  forget  your  pitiful  little  face — but  there,"  rather 
abruptly,  "  we  will  not  talk  until  we  have  had  our  break- 
fast. I  think  we  both  want  air  and  sunshine — would  you 
like  me  to  drive  you  to  Richmond,  darling,  or  shall  we 
just  stroll  to  Battersea  Park?" 

The  last  suggestion  pleased  me  best.  At  this  early- 
hour  Battersea  Park  would  be  quiet  and  pleasant,  and 
we  could  easily  find  some  nook  away  from  children  and 
nursemaids.  I  knew  Roy  would  prefer  this  plan,  for  of 
all  delights  he  enjoyed  barking  at  the  ducks  in  the  pond. 
He  would  scamper  madly  round  the  edge  of  the  pond, 
all  fuss  and  fury,  but  he  never  attempted  to  go  into  the 
water. 

We  soon  found  a  quiet  bench,  and  then  father  began 
to  talk.  He  asked  me  at  once  if  I  intended  going  back 
to  Bayfield.  **  As  you  brought  no  luggage  with  you." 
he  continued,  "  I  guessed  that  this  was  your  intention." 

I  told  him  that  he  was  right,  and  that  I  had  promised 
my  mother  to  return  in  a  few  days.  "  It  is  Tuesday ;  if 
you  can  spare  me,  father,  I  think  I  will  write  and  tell 
her  to  expect  me  on  Saturday." 

He  assented  quietly  to  this.  "  But  you  will  not  stay 
long,  Gip,"  he  added  hastily. 

"  No,  not  this  time — only  ten  days  or  so  " ;  and  he 
seemed  relieved  when  I  said  this. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  we  are  to  do  for  the  future," 
he  continued,  and  there  was  deep  depression  in  his  voice. 
"  I  do  not  want  to  be  selfish,  and  I  suppose  your  mother 
ought  to  have  her  share ;  but  I  simply  cannot  endure 
home  without  you.     Cheyne  Walk  is  the  abomination  of 


183 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

desolation  without  you,  Gipsy ;  besides,  my  daughter  is 
the  mistress  of  the  house."  He  spoke  as  though  he  were 
defending  himself  against  some  one. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  was  my  answer ;  "  but  you  are 
not  selfish,  father;  you  know  that  I  never  like  leaving 
you.  But  what  are  we  to  do — there  is  mother  ?  "  and 
as  I  said  this  the  memory  of  her  as  I  last  saw  her  came 
back  to  me,  when  she  stood  by  the  landing  window  in  her 
grey  gown,  looking  like  a  Mater  Dolorosa. 

I  noticed  that  father  winced  perceptibly  when  I  men- 
tioned her.  I  was  determined  to  school  myself  to  pro- 
nouncing her  name,  that  in  time  I  might  learn  to  say  it 
more  naturally.  My  own  deadness  of  feeling  with  regard 
to  her  had  alarmed  me.  I  did  not  understand  then  as 
fully  as  I  did  afterwards  that  I  was  jealous  of  any  strong 
influence  which  threatened  his  monopoly  of  my  afifection. 
All  these  years  it  had  been  father  and  I,  or,  as  he  had 
more  than  once  playfully  expressed  it,  "  Darnell  and 
Co." ;  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  we  had  been 
all  in  all  to  each  other;  and  as  I  grew  up  to  womanhood 
this  bond  had  only  strengthened  and  deepened.  I  was  the 
light  of  his  eyes ;  I  knew  that  well ;  the  one  ewe  lamb  that 
had  been  spared  to  him  out  of  his  life's  wreck,  who 
metaphorically  had  drunk  of  his  cup  and  lay  in  his  bosom, 
and  he  could  not  do  without  me. 

How  the  knowledge  of  this  oneness  of  sympathy 
between  us  must  have  tortured  my  mother  and  added 
to  her  loneliness !  Shut  out  of  her  woman's  paradise  by 
her  own  inexorable  and  unyielding  will,  by  a  pride  which 
could  not  stoop  to  pity  and  forgive,  she  yet  suffered  all 
the  pangs  of  outraged  maternity ;  she  had  to  hide  her 
mother's  love,  to  stifle  the  cry  of  her  heart,  for  the  child 
she  so  dearly  loved.  Alas,  who  could  restore  to  her  these 
past  years  when  from  afar  she  watched  over  my  child- 

184 


FATHER  AND  I 

hood!     Could  any  aftermath  of  tenderness  make  up  for 
the  years  that  the  locust  had  eaten? 

I  was  very  full  of  pity  for  her  as  these  thoughts 
crossed  my  mind,  and  yet — and  yet  my  deepest  sympathy 
was  for  my  father.  Surely  he  had  suffered  and  humbled 
himself  enough ;  all  this  long  estrangement — this  cruel 
separation — was  her  doing,  not  his.  I  knew  without 
words  that  at  any  moment,  if  she  had  chosen,  she  could 
have  come  back  and  taken  her  rightful  place. 

My  father  sighed  and  moved  restlessly  as  I  made  my 
little  speech — "  There  is  mother." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  do  you  think  I  ever  forget  her  for 
a  moment?  If  she  had  only  sent  me  a  message — but  no, 
it  is  hopeless.  My  darling,  I  shall  expect  you  to  help 
me  in  this ;  you  must  let  me  know  what  you  consider 
due  to  your  mother,  for  I  cannot  trust  myself  in  this 
matter." 

I  knew  what  he  meant — that  any  further  sacrifice 
on  his  part  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  him,  that  he 
wanted  me  too  much  to  spare  me  willingly ;  but  he  was 
giving  me  a  harder  task  than  he  guessed. 

"  Whatever  you  decide  ought  to  be  done,  Githa,  shall 
be  done ;  but  there  is  no  need  to  settle  this  in  a  hurry. 
Think  over  it,  dear,  and  remember  you  must  help  me 
not  to  be  selfish."    Then  I  slipped  my  hand  in  his. 

"  I  am  selfish  too,  father.  But  you  are  right,  and  we 
will  decide  nothing  in  a  hurry.  There  is  one  thing  I  want 
to  say :  all  this  secrecy  has  been  a  mistake ;  in  my  opinion 
it  has  been  absolutely  wrong." 

"  And  in  mine  too,  Gipsy,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  I  know  that ;  but  at  least  we  may  do 
our  best  to  set  wrong  right." 

"  You  mean  that  you  wish  our  friends  to  know  about 
your  mother." 

I8S 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Yes,"  rather  excitedly,  "  our  friends,  our  household 
— every  one  connected  with  us.  I  would  have  no  more 
mysteries  and  false  impressions." 

"  You  are  right,  my  child  " ;  but  he  shivered  a  little  as 
though  the  task  would  be  a  painful  one.  "  If  you  wish 
it  I  will  speak  to  Hallett  to-night." 

"  No,  dear,  you  shall  not  do  that.  I  have  thought  of 
a  better  plan :  I  will  tell  Mardie,  and  she  will  manage 
the  rest,"  for  I  was  anxious  to  spare  him  all  I  could.  For 
his  dear  sake  I  could  be  strong  and  courageous.  "  But, 
father,  there  is  Aunt  Cosie ;  surely  she  comes  first !  " 
Then  he  smiled  as  though  faintly  amused. 

"  Aunt  Cosie  has  known  all  along,  darling ;  there  is 
no  need  to  tell  her  anything.  She  has  always  strongly 
disapproved  of  your  mother's  conditions,  and  has  blamed 
me  most  severely  for  what  she  calls  my  weak  compro- 
mise ;  and  I  dare  say  she  is  right.  It  has  led  to  a  serious 
breach  between  her  and  Yvonne — your  mother  I  mean — 
and  they  have  not  met  for  years.  I  should  like  you  to 
go  and  see  her  to-morrow,  Gipsy.  I  think  you  had  better 
go  alone.  She  will  be  thankful  to  know  that  the  truth 
has  been  told  at  last,  and  I  dare  say  her  wise  old  head 
will  help  us  to  unravel  the  tangled  skein."  And  then, 
of  course,  I  told  him  that  I  would  go  to  Fairlawn  the 
next  dav. 


i86 


XIX 

"IT  IS  SAD  AS  DEATH" 


Let  no  man  shrink  from  the  bitter  tonics, 
Of  grief  and  yearning,  and  need  and  strife; 
For  the  rarest  chords  in  the  soul's  harmonics 
Are  found  in  the  minor  strains  of  life. 

E.  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Is  it  a  dream?  Let  us  shape  it  to  action. 
Mighty  with  truth's  irresistible  strength. 
Bold  with  the  courage  that  fears  no  distraction. 
Shall  we  not  climb  to  the  vision  at  length? 

C.  M.  Noel. 

Father  told  me  that  evening  that  there  would  be  an 
important  meeting  of  directors  the  next  morning,  and 
that  he  must  drive  into  town  early.  He  suggested  also 
that  I  should  accompany  him  part  of  the  way,  and  that 
he  should  drop  me  at  Fairlawn.  "  It  will  not  make 
much  difference  to  me,  we  can  start  a  little  earlier,"  he 
went  on. 

"You  might  as  well  stay  to  luncheon,  Gipsy,  for  I 
am  not  likely  to  return  before  tea-time,  I  have  rather 
a  long  day  before  me  " ;  and  I  readily  acquiesced  in  this 
arrangement. 

I  shrank  from  the  idea  of  a  solitary  day,  and  under 
the  circumstances  I  was  unwilling  to  seek  Miss  Red- 
ford's  society;  so  the  idea  of  spending  the  day  at  Fair- 
lawn  seemed  to  me  rather  pleasant  than  otherwise.  I 
was  very  fond  of  Aunt  Cosie ;  she  was  such  a  peaceful 
sort  of  person,  and  somehow  she  never  disappointed  me 

187 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

in  my  childish  troubles.  She  had  always  been  so  kind  and 
sympathetic,  and  I  felt  assured  that  she  would  not  fail 
me  now. 

We  talked  very  little  during  the  drive ;  but  as  we 
came  in  sight  of  Fairlawn  father  put  his  hand  on  mine. 

"  You  need  not  be  nervous,  Gipsy,"  he  said  kindly, 
"  your  Aunt  Cosie  will  be  very  good  to  you,  and  you  need 
have  no  reserves  with  her,"  and  then  he  smiled  at  me, 
and  the  next  moment  the  carriage  stopped. 

Aunt  Cosie  was  sitting  as  usual  in  her  sunny  drawing- 
room.  She  had  just  given  her  orders  to  her  cook,  and 
was  reading  the  Times  before  she  wrote  her  letters. 
Later  on  she  would  take  her  morning  walk  or  potter  in 
the  garden.  Her  habits  were  like  clockwork,  and  she 
seldom  varied  them.  "  A  lonely  old  woman  is  a  law  to 
herself,"  she  said  once  when  father  was  teasing  her  and 
calling  her  the  "  clockwork  lady,"  declaring  in  his  droll 
way  that  she  wound  herself  up  afresh  every  morning  for 
her  round  of  duties.  "  Ah,  Philip,  my  dear,"  she  went 
on,  "  it  is  no  wonder  that  you  cannot  enter  into  an  old 
wife's  feelings ;  but  I  always  was  an  orderly  sort  of  body 
from  a  girl,  and  I  like  my  day's  machinery  to  be  well 
oiled  and  never  out  of  gear.  A  little  method  makes  '  the 
trivial  round,  the  common  task,'  ever  so  much  easier." 

Aunt  Cosie  put  down  her  paper  with  a  surprised  excla- 
mation when  she  saw  me. 

"  Why,  Githa,  child,"  she  observed,  "  I  thought  you 
were  at  Bayfield.    Has  anything  prevented  your  going?  " 

"  No,  Aunt  Cosie,  I  came  home  unexpectedly  because 
I  wanted  to  speak  to  father;  but  I  am  going  back  on 
Saturday." 

I  thought  Aunt  Cosie  looked  at  me  a  little  keenly 
when  I  said  that.  Then  she  folded  her  paper  in  a  reso- 
lute manner. 

z88 


IT  IS  SAD  AS  DEATH 

"  And  you  have  come  to  spend  the  day  with  me,  have 
you  not,  my  dear?  " 

"If  I  shall  not  be  in  the  way,  Aunt  Cosie.  Father 
has  an  important  meeting,  and  a  good  deal  of  business, 
so  I  need  not  be  home  until  five — so  if  you  can  keep  me 
until  then."  But  Aunt  Cosie  paid  no  heed  to  this  tenta- 
tive remark. 

"  Go  and  take  off  your  things  in  the  blue  room,"  she 
returned  quietly;  "and,  Githa,  if  you  will  just  ring  the 
bell  as  you  pass,  I  have  an  order  to  give."  Of  course, 
the  dear  old  thing  was  thinking  of  luncheon.  She  would 
insist  on  having  my  favourite  pudding  or  some  special 
dainty,  and  I  would  not  spoil  her  pleasure  by  telling  her 
that  I  had  no  heart  for  such  things.  When  I  returned 
to  the  room  her  wool  work  was  beside  her,  but  she  had  not 
taken  it  up.  As  I  came  towards  her  she  pointed  mutely 
to  the  great  square  footstool  beside  her,  and  I  thought 
her  sweet  old  face  looked  unusually  grave. 

"  You  poor  child,"  she  said  in  such  a  pitying  voice, 
"  have  you  come  of  your  own  accord  to  talk  to  me,  or 
has  Philip,  your  father  I  mean,  sent  you  ?  "  and  then  I 
knew  that  she  understood  all  about  it ;  indeed,  she  in- 
formed me  afterwards,  the  first  glance  at  my  face  told 
her  everything  without  a  word. 

T  felt  an  intense  relief  when  she  said  this.  She  was 
smoothing  my  hair  with  her  soft  old  hand  as  she  spoke, 
in  such  a  comforting  way. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Cosie,  how  could  you  guess  ? "  I  half 
whispered ;  but  she  only  gave  an  inexplicable  little  smile, 
and  went  on  with  her  caressing  manipulations.  "  Father 
wished  me  to  come.  He  said  j'ou  knew  all  about  it,  and 
that  I  could  tell  you  anything  I  liked.  Oh,  I  have  been 
so  unhappy,   so  perplexed   and   miserable,   and   all   life 


189 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

seemed  spoiled  somehow  and  the  sunshine  blotted  out " ; 
and  here  I  buried  my  face  in  her  lap,  unable  to  go  on. 

"  You  poor  little  child !  "  and  here  her  hand  rested 
rather  heavily  on  my  hair.  And  then  she  said  something 
that  sounded  very  strange  to  me — "  Are  you  so  unhappy, 
Githa,  to  find  you  have  a  good  mother  living?  " 

How  shockingly  that  sounded ! 

"  No,  oh  no.  Of  course  I  never  meant  that,  and  all 
my  life  I  have  been  so  fond  of  Cousin  Yvonne." 

"  But  you  find  it  difficult  to  realise  that  she  is  your 
mother.  I  think  I  understand  how  you  feel,  Githa — it 
has  been  a  great  shock." 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  it." 

"  Let  us  talk  a  little  about  it,  dear.  I  think  I  can  find 
some  way  to  help  you,  but  I  must  know  more  first"; 
and  then,  with  much  tender  encouragement  and  a  few 
judicious  questions,  she  drew  from  me  the  account  of  that 
Sunday  evening,  and  when  I  broke  down,  unable  to  pro- 
ceed, she  petted  and  soothed  me  as  though  I  were  still 
the  child  Githa. 

"  Oh,  the  pity  of  it,"  I  heard  her  say  half  to  herself, — 
"  the  cruel  waste — the  unnecessary  suffering !"  Then  in 
a  quieter  tone,  "  Githa,  I  dare  say  your  father  has  told 
you  that  from  the  first  I  disapproved  of  all  this  secrecy. 
You  have  been  allowed  to  grow  up  in  the  belief  that 
your  mother  was  dead  " ;  but  I  would  not  let  her  go  on. 

"  It  was  not  father's  fault.  Aunt  Cosie." 

"  He  did  not  propose  it,  you  mean.  Yes,  at  heart,  I 
know,  he  absolutely  disapproved  of  your  mother's  con- 
ditions; but  it  was  wrong  and  weak  of  him  to  give  in  to 
her.    How  often  I  have  told  him  that !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  and  of  course  it  was  a  grievous  mis- 
take. Oh,  Aunt  Cosie,  if  you  could  only  realise  the 
shock  it  was  to  me !  " 

190 


IT  IS  SAD  AS  DEATH 

"  I  think  I  do  realise  it,  Githa.  Have  you  any  idea 
how  changed  you  are,  my  poor  child?  You  look  years 
older  since  the  day  you  came  to  wish  me  good-bye,  and 
yet  it  is  not  a  week  ago." 

I  was  silent.  I  certainly  felt  years  older,  and  some- 
thing told  me  that  I  should  never  be  quite  the  same 
Githa  again. 

"  It  was  living  a  lie,  and  that  is  always  wrong,"  she 
went  on,  "  Githa,  from  what  you  have  told  me,  your 
mother  seems  to  have  said  very  little  to  you.  I  can  under- 
stand the  difficulty,  and  Yvonne,  in  spite  of  all  her  faults, 
can  be  generous ;  but  it  seems  to  me,  putting  myself  in 
your  place,  that  you  could  hardly  comprehend  how  this 
strange  and  unnatural  separation  took  place " ;  but  I 
was  so  afraid  of  what  she  might  be  going  to  say,  that  I 
interrupted  her  almost  abruptly. 

"  Forgive  me.  Aunt  Cosie,  but  I  know  all  that  I  wish 
or  mean  to  know.  Why  my  parents  have  decided  to 
separate  is  their  affair,  not  mine.  That  is  why  I  came 
home  that  evening,  that  I  might  tell  father  that  nothing 
— nothing  should  ever  make  a  difference  between  us.  If 
I  ever  loved  him  in  my  life,  I  love  him  a  hundred  times 
more  now  when  I  know  how  unhappy  he  has  been." 

"And  your  mother,  Githa?"  Then  a  chill  pang 
crossed  my  heart. 

"  I  have  always  loved  her,  even  though  I  was  ignorant 
that  she  was  my  mother " ;  but  my  voice  was  a  little 
cold.  "  But,  Aunt  Cosie,  I  do  not  understand  her.  I 
think — I  always  shall  think — that  she  need  not  have  left 
us."  But  the  next  moment  I  would  have  gladly  with- 
drawn my  impulsive  words ;  had  I  not  said  that  it  was 
not  for  me  to  judge  my  parents? 

"  My  dear  child,  it  nearly  broke  her  heart  to  go  and 
leave  you  behind." 

191 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Yes,  I  know,  and  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that. 
You  must  forget  it,  Aunt  Cosie.  I  mean  to  love  my 
mother,  and  if  she  will  only  come  back  to  us,  there  is 
nothing  on  earth  I  would  not  do  to  make  her  happy." 

"  I  fear — I  greatly  fear — that  she  will  not  do  that." 

"  Why  should  she  not  do  it,"  I  returned  with  much 
agitation,  "  when  we  both  love  her  and  want  her  so 
badly?  She  is  so  dear  and  good,  why  is  it  so  difficult  for 
her  to  forgive,  after  all  these  yeara  too  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed,"  and  Aunt  Cosie  sighed,  and  there 
was  a  troubled  look  on  her  face ;  and  then  she  murmured 
under  her  breath,  "  *  Until  seventy  times  seven,'  those 
were  the  Master's  words  " ;  and  then  we  were  both  silent. 
Aunt  Cosie  seemed  absorbed  in  her  own  reflections,  and 
I  was  unwilling  to  disturb  her ;  but  she  presently  roused 
herself  with  a  sigh.  "  It  is  sad — it  is  sad  as  death,  Githa, 
and  I  cannot  imagine  what  you  will  all  do  in  the  future; 
your  mother  has  claims." 

"  I  can  never  leave  father.  He  is  my  first  duty, 
Aunt  Cosie." 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  say  that,"  she  returned  quietly, 
"  and  under  the  peculiar  circumstances  I  dare  say  you 
are  right.  But  a  mother's  claims  must  be  very  strong, 
and  I  do  not  see,  my  poor  child,  how  you  are  to  satisfy 
them." 

I  did  not  see  it  either,  and  my  heart  felt  as  heavy 
as  a  millstone  as  she  spoke,  but  nothing  would  induce 
me  to  give  up  hope  of  a  final  reconciliation.  With 
some  difficulty,  and  with  many  tears,  I  tried  to  convey 
this  to  her  mind,  and  she  seemed  so  touched  that  she 
could  scarcely  refrain  from  weeping  too.  "  Dear  child, 
dear  child,"  she  said  softly,  again  and  again,  and  then 
something  prompted  me  to  tell  her  my  strange  dream. 
I  think  she  was  a  little  awed  and  startled,  and  although 

192 


IT  IS  SAD  AS  DEATH 

she    said    it    was    beautiful,    she    looked    at   me    rather 
uneasily. 

"  It  was  an  extraordinary  dream  for  a  girl  of  your 
age,  Githa.  Your  brain  must  have  been  overwrought, 
my  dear." 

"  Aunt  Cosie,  one  day  I  mean  to  tell  my  mother 
that  dream." 

She  nodded  gravely ;  then  she  suddenly  put  her  hands 
on  my  shoulder. 

"  Githa,  my  dear,  there  is  something  I  want  to  say 
to  you,  and  that  you  must  not  refuse  to  hear.  Surely," 
in  rather  a  hurt  voice,  "  you  can  trust  me,"  as  I  uncon- 
sciously shrank  under  her  soft,  constraining  touch. 

"  Trust  you — of  course  I  do,  dear  Aunt  Cosie, 
but " 

"  There  are  no  buts,  Githa,"  with  a  quiet  firmness 
that  subdued  my  nervousness ;  "  and  if  you  love  your 
father  you  will  not  refuse  to  hear  what  I  think  it  right 
to  tell  you. 

"  It  is  true  that  when  you  were  a  little  child  there 
was  trouble  between  your  parents,  and  that  your  poor 
mother  had  much  to  bear."  i 

"  Aunt    Cosie,    please,    please "      But    she    only 

pressed   her   hands   more   firmly   on    my   shoulders   and 
went  on. 

"  No  doubt  Philip — your  father  I  mean — was  to 
blame.  As  a  young  man  he  was  weak  and  easily  led,  and 
he  came  under  a  bad  influence.  I  know  all  the  circum- 
stances, Githa, — far  more  than  your  mother  does.  I 
know  everything,  from  Philip's  own  lips,  and  I  can  tell 
his  daughter,  what  I  never  could  bring  her  mother  to 
believe,  that  things  were  not  as  bad  as  they  appeared  to 
be." 

"  And  my  mother  would  not  believe  you  ?  " 
X3  193 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  No,  my  dear ;  she  said  I  was  prejudiced  in  Philip's 
favour,  and  that  I  always  took  his  side.  I  never  saw  a 
woman  so  proud  and  so  determined  to  wreck  her  own 
life  and  other  people's ;  she  could  not  forgive.  She  told 
me  so,  with  a  despairing  look  on  her  poor  white  face ; 
and  I  could  do  no  more  for  either  of  them." 

"And  yet  he  had  done  no  great  wrong?"  Then 
Aunt  Cosie  coloured  and  seemed  a  little  perplexed. 

"  My  dear  child,  in  one  sense  he  had  wronged  her 
cruelly,  for  he  had  made  her  suffer  very  bitter  pain;  hut 
though  he  acted  foolishly  and  recklessly,  and  gave  her 
just  cause  for  her  unhappiness,  things  never  came  to 
the  worst.  At  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice  he  came  to 
his  right  senses.     I  always  said  a  miracle  saved  him." 

I  listened  in  breathless  interest  to  this  vague  explana- 
tion. In  spite  of  my  assurance  that  no  wrong-doing 
on  my  beloved  father's  part  should  ever  come  between 
us,  it  was  an  immense  relief  to  hear  that  things  were  not 
so  terrible  as  I  feared.  Aunt  Cosie  smiled  again  as  she 
read  my  face. 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  whole  truth,  Githa." 

"  Yes ;  and  I  am  so  thankful  to  have  heard  it.  But, 
Aunt  Cosie,  do  you  see,  it  only  makes  it  all  the  more 
strange  that  my  mother  should  have  left  us." 

"  There  is  no  use  entering  into  that,  Githa."  she 
returned  sadly.  "  There  were  temperamental  difficulties 
on  your  mother's  side  which  hindered  reconciliation.  If 
she  could  only  have  brought  herself  to  believe  the  truth — 
if  she  could  have  cleared  her  mind  of  preconceived 
notions  and  prejudices — she  might  have  been  more 
reasonable ;  but  at  that  time  she  had  so  exaggerated  her 
own  misery  that  she  was  thrown  off  her  balance.  I 
think  a  gentler  nature  would  have  forgiven  even  then ; 
but  Yvonne's  indomitable  pride  and  self-will  would  not 

194 


IT  IS  SAD  AS  DEATH 

hear  of  yielding,  and  so,"  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  they  were 
best  apart." 

"  Aunt  Cosie,  you  cannot  think  so  now ;  they  are 
both  unhappy,  and  they  do  care  for  each  other  so  dread- 
fully." 

She  seemed  faintly  amused  at  my  childish  way  of 
expressing  it ;  but  I  saw  she  was  not  sanguine,  though 
she  was  unwilling  to  depress  me.  She  patted  my  cheek 
softly. 

"  Dear  child,"  she  said  affectionately,  "  Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  say  a  word  to  discourage  you;  there  are 
miracles  even  now.  Follow  the  instinct  of  your  own 
loving  heart,  and  every  blessing  attend  you."  And  as 
she  kissed  me,  I  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  her  dear  old 
eyes,  and  that  she  was  strongly  moved. 

I  saw  that  she  did  not  wish  to  pursue  the  subject,  so 
I  suggested  that  we  should  go  for  a  little  walk,  and  she 
hailed  my  proposal  with  an  air  of  relief;  and  I  think 
the  spring  sunshine  did  us  both  a  world  of  good. 

We  spent  the  afternoon  pleasantly ;  and  nothing  more 
passed  between  us  on  the  subject  of  my  visit,  until  I 
bade  her  good-bye,  and  then  he  detained  me  a  moment. 

"  You  are  really  going  back  to  Bayfield  on  Saturday, 
Githa?"  she  said  a  little  wistfully. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Cosie,  but  I  shall  not  remain  long  this 
time.    Have  you — have  you  any  message?  " 

She  flushed  a  little  at  my  question,  and  hesitated. 
"  It  is  long  since  we  exchanged  messages,"  she  returned 
rather  sadly.  "  Still,  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  make 
a  beginning.  Will  you  tell  Yvonne — I  mean  your  mother 
— that  I  am  glad  and  thankful  that  you  know  every- 
thing?" 

"  And  is  that  all,  auntie?  " 

"  No ;  you  may  give  her  my  love,  if  she  cares  to  have 
1 95 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

it,  and  tell  her — yes,  Githa,  you  may  tell  her  this — that 
if  she  values  her  child's  peace  of  mind,  as  well  as  her 
own,  she  will  come  to  me  of  her  own  accord,  and  let  an 
old  woman  tell  her  the  truth  " ;  and  then  she  gave  me  a 
little  nod  of  dismissal. 

But  in  spite  of  all  her  kindness  and  gentle  sympathy 
a  heavy  weight  still  lay  on  my  heart.  If  Aunt  Cosie, 
who  knew  all  the  circumstances,  and  who  understood  my 
mother's  complex  nature,  was  so  hopeless  of  results,  was 
it  likely  that  I,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  without  knowl- 
edge and  experience,  could  expect  to  surmount  such 
difficulties !  A  sense  of  my  utter  helplessness  almost 
crushed  me ;  the  cold  wind  of  disillusion  seemed  to  chill 
me  as  I  walked  along.  "  What  am  I  to  do  ?  How  am 
I  to  set  about  it?  "  I  thought.  "  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
in  fog,  and  could  not  see  my  way.  Shall  I  ever  see  it,  I 
wonder  ?  "  still  more  hopelessly,  and  then  a  quaint  Eastern 
proverb  came  into  my  mind,"  God  makes  the  blind  bird's 
nest."  What  depths  of  meaning  were  concealed  in  that 
saying!  If  for  the  dim-eyed  fluttering  thing  there  was 
shelter  and  help,  surely  an  ignorant  and  helpless  girl 
might  find  guidance.  And  these  other  more  sacred  words 
came  into  my  mind,  "  I  will  lead  them  by  ways  that  they 
have  not  known  " ;  and  then  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  no 
longer  afraid. 


196 


XX 

AN  OPEN  SECRET 


It  may  be  little  we  can  do 

To  help  another,  it  is  true ; 

But  better  is  a  little  spark 

Of  kindness  when  the  way  is  dark.  .  .  . 

See  how,  everywhere, 

Love  comforts,  strengthens,  helps,  and  saves  us  all, 

What  opportunities  of  good  befall 

To  make  life  sweet  and  fair. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


I  WAS  surprised  to  find  that  father  never  questioned  me 
at  all  about  my  visit.  He  gave  me  one  of  his  quick, 
searching  looks  when  he  came  in ;  then  he  sank  into  his 
chair  with  a  weary  air  as  though  he  were  extremely  tired, 
and  asked  me  to  give  him  a  cup  of  tea.  As  he  seemed 
out  of  spirits,  I  proposed  going  on  with  the  book  we  had 
been  reading  aloud,  and  he  assented  gratefully.  He  always 
said  that  my  voice  had  a  soothing  effect  on  him ;  but  this 
evening  it  acted  as  a  narcotic.  I  knew  he  had  slept 
badly,  and  I  was  relieved  to  find  that  before  half-an-hour 
had  passed  he  was  in  a  peaceful  slumber.  I  went  on 
reading  for  another  ten  minutes,  then  I  slipped  away  so 
quietly  that  he  was  not  disturbed.  The  long  sleep 
refreshed  him,  and  he  seemed  more  rested  and  like  him- 
self when  we  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  we  talked  on  ordi- 
nary everyday  topics  with  some  degree  of  cheerfulness. 
I  saw  that  he  was  anxious  to  keep  up  appearances  before 

197 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

the  servants,  and  I  tried  to  second  him  to  the  best  of 
my  abiHty.  As  we  went  back  to  the  Hbrary  he  put  his 
arm  around  me — "  So  Aunt  Cosie  was  good  to  you, 
Gipsy." 

"  Oh  yes,  father;  she  was  as  dear  and  nice  as  possible." 

"  She  has  always  been  my  best  friend,"  he  returned 
in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling.  "  I  suppose  it  is  natural,  darling, 
that  one  should  find  the  greatest  comfort  in  the  friends 
who  never  lose  their  faith  in  one.  My  Cousin  Constance 
has  been  staunch  to  me  through  good  and  evil  report ; 
she  has  a  heart  of  gold,  and  no  amount  of  digging  can 
exhaust  her  mine  of  charity — if  others  could  but  learn 
from  her."  Then  I  knew  that  he  was  alluding  to  my 
mother. 

I  liked  to  hear  him  speak  in  this  grateful,  appreciative 
way  of  dear  Aunt  Cosie,  but  he  did  not  pursue  the  sub- 
ject, and  the  next  moment  he  asked  me  to  play  to  him. 
I  spent  most  of  the  evening  going  through  his  favourite 
symphonies  and  sonatas,  and  when  my  fingers  were 
weary  I  sat  down  beside  him.  He  was  still  in  no  mood 
for  talking,  but  he  drew  me  closer  to  him  until  my  head 
rested  on  his  shoulder ;  and  so  we  remained  in  a  peaceful 
sense  of  companionship,  which  needs  no  words,  until  it 
grew  late ;  then  silently  wrapping  me  in  his  arms,  with 
an  earnest  kiss  or  two  he  dismissed  me  to  my  rest. 

I  was  too  tired  to  talk  to  Mardie  that  night,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  following  evening  that  I  found  my  oppor- 
tunity. Father  and  I  had  spent  the  whole  day  together. 
We  had  a  long  ride  before  luncheon,  and  in  the  afternoon 
he  took  me  to  see  a  fine  collection  of  pictures,  and  we 
afterwards  had  tea  in  the  studio  of  an  artist  friend  of 
his.  He  had  just  completed  a  picture  for  the  Royal 
Academy,  and  was  anxious  for  father's  opinion.  I  think 
the  little  change  did  us  both  good.     Cyril  Brodrick  was 


AN  OPEN  SECRET 

rather  Bohemian  in  his  tastes,  but  some  of  his  friends 
were  dehghtful,  and  one  was  always  sure  to  find  a  pleasant 
social  gathering  on  Thursday  afternoon.  In  the  evening 
I  read  aloud  and  played,  but  I  could  not  trust  my  voice 
to  sing.  I  am  quite  sure  father  guessed  the  reason,  for 
he  did  not  ask  me  for  any  of  his  favourite  songs,  and 
contented  himself  with  Chopin  and  Beethoven ;  his  tact 
was  never  at  fault. 

I  went  upstairs  earlier  that  night,  for  I  was  deter- 
mined to  talk  to  Mardie  before  I  slept.  I  had  noticed 
a  trace  of  anxiety  in  her  manner  the  previous  evening, 
and  she  had  lingered  in  my  room  rather  unnecessarily 
as  though  to  give  me  an  opportunity.  I  felt  sure  she 
suspected  that  all  was  not  right  with  me,  and  was  far 
from  easy  in  her  mind. 

To-night  I  hurried  my  preparations  for  bed,  and  cut 
short  rather  ruthlessly  the  hair-brushing  in  which  she 
took  such  pride  and  delight.  She  was  never  weary  of 
commenting  on  the  length  and  thickness  of  my  brown 
mane.  "  Few  young  ladies  had  such  lovely  hair,"  she 
would  say  quite  seriously,  and  she  even  assured  me  that 
it  swept  the  ground  when  I  sat  down. 

I  confess  that  I  liked  to  hear  her  praises  of  its  soft- 
ness and  gloss,  for  no  girl  of  seventeen  is  quite  devoid  of 
vanity,  but  to-night  I  begged  her  to  arrange  it  quickly 
in  the  loose  plait  that  I  always  wore  at  night ;  and  when 
my  head  was  safely  on  the  pillow  I  asked  her  to  come 
and  sit  beside  me,  and  the  dear  old  thing  did  not  hesitate 
for  a  moment. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me,  dearie,"  she  whis- 
pered, and  her  voice  was  full  of  understanding  and 
sympathy,  as  though  she  guessed  trouble  had  touched 
me. 

"Yes,  and  there  is  much  to  tell,"  was  my  answer. 
199 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Mardie,  do  you  know  that  my  mother  is  not  dead 
after  all?" 

I  had  been  a  little  abrupt,  for  I  felt  her  start  at  this, 
but  again  there  was  no  hesitation. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Githa,  my  dear,"  she  returned  gravely. 
"  Somehow  I  always  knew  that  from  the  first,  though 
no  one  ever  told  me  so  outright." 

"  No  one?    Are  you  quite  sure,  Mardie?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure,  dearie.  I  only  guessed  it  from 
something  Mrs.  Bevan  once  said, — it  was  only  a  word 
or  two,  and  she  never  dreamt  that  I  understood  her. 
But  when  she  went  away  I  said  to  myself,  '  The  poor 
lady  is  living,  but  they  don't  mean  the  child  to  know  it.' " 

I  pondered  over  this  surprising  piece  of  intelligence. 
Mardie  knew.  She  had  guessed,  had  pieced  stray  words 
together  in  her  clever  way.  I  had  now  to  find  out  how 
much  she  knew.  To  my  astonishment  her  knowledge 
was  absolutely  nil. 

"  I  only  knew  for  certain  that  your  mother  was  alive," 
she  said  quietly,  "  and  that  the  master  had  a  sore  heart. 
All  the  world  could  see  that  he  was  in  grievous  trouble." 

"  But  surely,  Mardie  dear,  you  guessed  more  than 
that."  Then  she  drew  herself  up  in  almost  a  dignified 
manner  for  so  small  a  woman. 

"  It  is  not  for  a  servant,  however  trusted  and  es- 
teemed, to  pry  into  her  master's  private  concerns.  Miss 
Githa,  my  dear.  Your  father  is  a  kind,  good-hearted 
man,  and  none  of  us  has  ever  known  him  to  be  unfair 
to  man,  woman  or  child.  You  should  just  hear  Mr. 
Hallett  speak  of  the  master.  He  fairly  worships  him. 
Hallett  knows  as  much  as  I  do,  and  perhaps  it  will  be 
no  harm  to  repeat  a  speech  he  once  made  when  you  were 
a  tiny  mite  between  five  or  six.     Hallett  had  only  been 


200 


AN  OPEN  SECRET 

twelve  months  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge  then,  but  from  the 
first  I  knew  he  was  to  be  trusted. 

" '  I  don't  know  what  your  opinion  may  be,  Mrs. 
Marland,'  he  said  in  a  vexed  sort  of  voice,  '  but  it  is 
my  firm  beHef  that  the  master  is  an  ill-used  man.  No 
one  could  see  him  with  that  child  and  doubt  it.  When 
our  young  lady  has  left  him  of  a  night,  I  have  seen  him 
sitting  over  his  books  and  papers  and  the  look  in  his 
eyes  would  have  made  your  heart  ache.    It  is  no  business 

of  ours,  of  course,  but '  "  but  here  I  clutched  Mardie's 

sleeve  to  stop  her,  for  I  was  afraid  to  let  her  go  on. 

"  Hallett  knows  as  well  as  you  that  my  mother  is 
not  dead  ?  "  I  asked.    And  she  nodded  assent. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Githa,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  too ;  we  have 
often  wondered  where  the  poor  lady  could  be ;  but  there, 
as  Hallett  said,  it  is  none  of  our  business.  There  are 
plenty  of  cupboards  in  many  households  where  there 
is  the  skeleton  of  a  secret  trouble,  for  there's  sore  afflic- 
tions in  this  life,  and  it  is  not  always  the  worst  of  troubles 
to  stand  by  an  open  grave." 

Mardie's  homely  philosophy  was  seldom  at  fault.  I 
saw  she  was  trying  to  repress  her  intense  curiosity,  and 
that  she  was  longing  for  me  to  tell  her  more. 

"  Mardie  dear,"  I  said  slowly,  "  last  Sunday  evening 
I  had  a  great  shock ;  and,"  the  tears  rising  to  my  eyes,  "  I 
am  afraid  that  life  will  never  seem  quite  the  same  to  me 
again.  No,"  as  she  uttered  an  inarticulate  exclamation 
of  sympathy,  "  do  not  interrupt  me — let  me  go  on.  On 
Sunday  morning  I  believed  tliat  my  mother  lay  in  some 
quiet  grave, — a  few  hours  later  I  met  her  face  to  face." 

"  My  lamb,  my  precious  lamb,"  fondling  my  hands. 

"  Hush,  Mardie,  for  I  have  not  finished.  My  mother 
is  a  good  woman,  and  I  have  known  and  loved  her  all 
my  life.     She  is — Cousin  Yvonne." 

201 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Again  I  had  been  too  abrupt.  My  dear  old  nurse  was 
so  shocked  and  surprised  that  she  could  not  speak.  She 
looked  quite  dazed  with  the  news. 

"  Am  I  awake  or  dreaming,  Miss  Githa  ?  "  she  said 
in  quite  a  helpless  tone ;  but  I  waited  a  little  until  her 
brain  began  to  realise  it,  and  then  I  saw  her  quick  wits 
were  piecing  things  together. 

We  had  a  long  talk  after  this.  I  took  Mardie  into 
my  confidence.  I  told  her  quite  frankly  that  I  was  still 
ignorant  of  the  reason  that  had  led  to  my  parents'  separa- 
tion, that  whatever  trouble  had  caused  it  was  aggravated 
by  misunderstanding  and  temperamental  difificulty.  "  My 
Aunt  Cosie  tells  me,"  I  continued,  "  that  there  was  not 
sufficient  cause  for  so  serious  an  estrangement;  but  my 
mother  is  very  proud,  and,  I  think,  a  little  hard,  and  she 
does  not  find  a  reconciliation  easy.  My  dear  father  has 
a  softer  nature." 

I  think  I  never  loved  nor  respected  Mardie  as  I  did 
that  night.  No  lady  in  the  land  could  have  shown  such 
true  delicacy  and  tact.  She  asked  no  questions  beyond 
what  I  told  her.  It  was  none  of  hers  or  Hallett's  business 
to  meddle  in  their  master's  private  affairs,  she  said.  And 
then  she  assured  me  again  and  again  of  her  sympathy, 
and  begged  me  not  to  lose  hope  in  a  brighter  future. 

"  Even  good  people  fall  out  sometimes.  Miss  Githa," 
she  went  on,  "  for  does  not  the  Bible  tell  us  that  matters 
were  so  sore  between  St.  Paul  and  Barnabas,  for  all 
their  friendship,  that  they  parted  and  went  different  ways. 
And  if,  as  you  say,  Mrs.  Darnell  is  a  proud  lady,  and 
stand-offish  and  fond  of  her  own  will,  they  may  have 
thought  it  better  to  part  for  a  time ;  and  it  must  be  your 
work,  my  darling  dear  young  lady,  to  bring  them  together 
again." 

I  had  hinted  at  this  to  Mardie,  and  she  had  caught 


AN  OPEN  SECRET 

at  the  idea  as  though  it  were  a  rope  to  save  drowning 
mariners,  and  in  her  homely  womanly  way  gave  me  a 
good  deal  of  encouragement. 

She  said  so  little  that  I  do  not  know  why  I  retained 
the  strong  impression  that  her  symapthy  was  with  my 
father ;  even  when  I  told  her  of  my  mother's  supreme 
act  of  self-sacrifice,  she  only  shook  her  head  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  "  Those  whom  God  has  joined  together,"  I  heard 
her  whisper,  and  I  knew  then,  as  I  knew  afterwards, 
that  the  household  would  side  with  my  father. 

It  was  very  late.  An  hour  ago  we  had  involuntarily 
hushed  our  voices  as  father  went  past  my  door,  but 
Mardie  positively  refused  to  leave  me.  It  would  be 
useless  for  her  to  go  to  her  bed,  she  said ;  she  would  only 
lie  awake  and  worry.  She  would  be  far  happier  to  sit 
beside  me  until  I  fell  off  into  a  peaceful  sleep ;  and  as 
nothing  would  move  her,  I  took  the  full  comfort  of  her 
silent-companionship.  I  heard  afterwards  that  it  was  not 
until  the  dawn  that  she  crept  way  to  her  own  room — 
dear,  faithful  Mardie. 

There  was  one  thing  we  settled  before  I  slept  that 
night,  that  Mardie  should  choose  her  own  time  and 
opportunity  for  imparting  the  information  of  my  mother's 
existence  to  Hallett  and  Mrs.  Kennedy,  "  our  trusty 
council  of  Three,"  as  father  often  called  them,  but  that 
for  the  present  the  rest  of  the  household  should  be  left  in 
ignorance. 

I  knew  well  how  faithfully  and  discreetly  Mardie 
would  guard  our  interests,  that  in  spite  of  her  friendly 
relations  with  Hallett  she  would  be  very  sparing  with  her 
tongue. 

One  more  duty  reinained  to  me.  Miss  Redford  had 
become  a  trusted  friend  of  the  family,  and  I  was  unwill- 
ing to  leave  her  in  ignorance.    When  one  has  a  difficult 

203 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

or  painful  task  to  perform,  it  is  useless  to  procrastinate. 
No  amount  of  contemplation  or  preparation  beforehand  is 
likely  to  make  the  softest  dentist's  chair  a  comfortable 
or  luxurious  seat,  and  a  nauseous  dose  is  swallowed  more 
readily  and  with  fewer  grimaces  if  taken  at  once.  Much 
as  I  cared  for  my  dear  Reddy — as  I  had  grown  to  call 
her — since  my  emancipation  from  the  schoolroom,  I  was 
always  afraid  of  a  certain  cool  matter-of-fact  criticism. 
Her  sympathies  lay  deep,  and  were  shown  more  in  deeds 
than  in  words,  though  Reddy  had  her  softer  moods  too. 

When  I  told  father  the  next  morning  that  I  intended 
calling  at  the  Nutshell,  as  we  always  named  it,  he  nodded 
rather  gravely,  as  though  he  understood.  But  he  did 
not  suggest,  as  he  generally  did,  that  I  should  invite 
her — Miss  Reddy — to  come  to  dinner ;  we  were  neither 
of  us  inclined  to  be  sociable,  and  preferred  our  cosy 
tete-a-tete  in  the  evening. 

Miss  Redford  was  at  home ;  she  was  sitting  in  the 
tiny  bay  window,  busily  engaged  in  making  a  pelisse  for 
Helen's  bonnie  boy.  She  seemed  much  surprised  to  see 
me,  as  she  thought  I  was  still  at  Bayfield;  but  she  wel- 
comed me  most  cordially,  and  exhibited  her  needlework 
rather  proudly.  "  Nellie  declares  that  it  is  far  fitter  for 
a  young  marquis  than  for  Elmer  John  Seymour,"  she 
observed  laughingly;  and  indeed  the  fairy  garment  was 
a  marvel  of  fine  needlework. 

During  the  last  year  or  two  I  had  noticed  a  great 
alteration  in  Miss  Redford.  She  looked  older  and  more 
mature,  and  she  had  certainly  lost  flesh,  though  she 
seemed  as  strong  and  capable  as  ever.  I  had  commented 
on  this  change  to  Aunt  Cosie,  but  she  only  looked  as 
though  she  agreed  with  me.  "  Oh  yes,"  she  observed. 
"  Claudia  is  certainly  thinner ;  she  is  not  the  sort  of 
woman  to  make  flesh  as  she  grows  older.     Helen  was 

204 


AN  OPEN  SECRET 

worrying  over  it  the  other  day,  but  I  told  her  that  a 
prolonged  course  of  platonic  friendship  was  not  exactly 
fattening, — oh  yes,"  with  a  little  shrug  of  disapproval, 
"  I  know  she  and  Mr.  Pelham  consider  themselves  en- 
gaged, but  as  far  as  matrimony  is  concerned,  it  is  likely 
to  be  a  '  No  Thoroughfare  '  piece  of  business.  I  always 
thought  Claudia  a  sensible,  matter-of-fact  woman ;  but 
even  she  has  her  limitations." 

I  thought  Miss  Redford  gave  me  a  sharp  look  as  she 
laid  the  needlework  aside,  and  then  we  sat  down  and 
began  to  talk ;  but  before  I  had  said  half-a-dozen  words 
she  almost  took  my  breath  away. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me,  Githa,"  she 
observed  coolly,  "  so  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  distress 
yourself  in  this  manner.  I  am  quite  aware  that  your 
Cousin  Yvonne  is  Mrs.  Philip  Darnell,  and  your 
mother." 

I  could  scarcely  believe  my  ears  when  she  said  this. 
"Who  told  you?"  I  asked  faintly. 

"  My  dear  child  no  one  has  told  me.  But  I  am  very 
quick ;  my  brother-in-law  often  says  that  I  should  make 
an  excellent  detective  or  lawyer.  I  have  got  a  knack  of 
finding  out  things,  which  Helen  declares  is  almost 
uncanny." 

"  But  no  one  has  said  anything,"  I  returned ;  for 
though  I  had  been  relieved  from  a  painful  task  I  was 
not  at  all  sure  that  I  was  grateful.  Until  now  I  had 
always  admired  Miss  Redford's  intellect  and  keen  pene- 
tration, but  I  felt  a  little  repelled  by  the  idea  that  so 
strong  a  flashlight  had  been  turned  on  our  personal 
concerns.     I  think  my  manner  hurt  her  a  little. 

"You  must  not  judge  me  beforehand,  Githa;  let  me 
explain  matters  more  clearly.  It  is  no  fault  of  mine 
that  I  have  a  mathematical  brain  and  a  certain  sagacity 

205 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

which  enables  me  to  form  conclusions  long  before  people 
begin  to  make  up  their  minds.  From  the  first  I  knew 
your  father  was  not  a  widower.  My  dear  old  friend, 
Mrs.  Bevan,  never  told  me  so  in  words,  neither  do  I 
remember  that  I  ever  questioned  her  directly  on  the 
subject, — nevertheless  her  manner  gave  me  the  clue.  I 
was  sure  that  your  mother  was  living,  although  you  were 
unaware  of  the  fact ;  but  for  a  long  time  the  whole  thing 
was  an  enigma ;  for  all  I  knew  Mrs.  Philip  Darnell 
might  be  in  an  asylum." 

"  Oh,  Reddy,  how  could  you  think  of  anything  so 
horrible?" 

"  My  dear,  imagination  is  a  sad  vagabond,  and  plays 
one  sorry  tricks  sometimes,  but  I  did  not  long  cherish 
my  hallucination.  It  was  when  you  were  ill,  Githa,  that 
the  idea  came  in  my  head — one  night  when  I  was  sitting 
up  with  you — that  your  Cousin  Yvonne  and  your  mother 
were  one  and  the  same  person." 

"  But  why — why,"  I  gasped,  "  why  should  such  a 
notion  come  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  Ah,  there  we  must  ask  our  vagabond  again.  Why 
do  these  sudden  intuitions  and  flashes  of  insight  often 
come  when  one  least  expects  them?  " 

"  From  the  first  I  felt  there  was  a  mystery  about  your 
Cousin  Yvonne.  The  regularity  of  your  visits  to  Bayfield 
and  your  cousin's  very  evident  kindness  and  generosity, 
the  fact  that  she  never  came  to  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  and 
that  though  letters  passed  between  them,  that  Mr.  Darnell 
never  visited  at  Prior's  Cot,  were  very  perplexing.  To  a 
mathematical  brain  surely  two  and  two  ought  to  make 
four.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  your  cousin  regarded  you 
with  almost  maternal  affection.  You  are  very  frank 
and  artless,  Githa,  and  you  have  told  me  so  much ;  my 
dear,  is  it  so  wonderful  that  you  yourself  should  have 

306 


AN  OPEN  SECRET 

unconsciously  given  me  the  clue.  That  night  when  you 
were  light-headed,  and  you  begged  your  father  to  send 
for  dear  Cousin  Yvonne,  I  saw  him  wince  and  change 
colour,  and  such  a  strange  look  come  into  his  eyes,  that 
I  said  to  myself  '  That  woman  is  Githa's  mother.'  " 


207 


XXI 

AN  OBJECT  LESSON 


It  does  no  good  to  brood  over  our  troubles ;  it  does  not  help 
matters  out  a  bit.  Be  on  the  lookout  for  bright  rays,  and  you 
will  certainly  find  them. — Anon. 

Three  blissful  words  I  name  to  thee 
Three  words  of  potent  charm, 
From  eating  care  thy  heart  to  free 
Thy  life  to  shield  from  harm  ; — 
Pray — work — and    sing. 

J.  Stuart  Blackie. 

I  LISTENED  to  Miss  Rcdfofd's  crisp,  fluent  sentences 
without  any  wish  to  interrupt  her.  There  was  no  longer 
a  difficult  task  before  me,  but  yet  how  suddenly  tired  I 
felt.  A  coming  sense  of  unreality  assailed  me.  Could 
it  really  be  true  after  all?  One  knows  so  well  in  after 
life  these  sudden  chill  revulsions  and  throbs  of  heart- 
sickness.  The  overwrought  brain  is  confused,  doubtful. 
There  is  no  clearness  of  vision, — something,  we  know 
not  what,  has  blurred  our  sight  all  at  once.  I  seemed 
to  be  assisting  at  a  strange  function  more  tragical  than 
joyful.  I  was  listening  to  some  narrative  which  did  not 
seem  to  concern  me  at  all.  I  looked  helplessly  at  Miss 
Redford ;  surely  she  would  know  what  to  do  next.  Was 
it  my  fancy  that  a  startled  look  came  into  her  eyes.  She 
leant  forward  and  took  my  hand  very  firmly  in  hers ;  their 
warmth  seemed  comforting ;  and  as  I  tried  to  smile  at  her, 
she  said,  very  gently  and  quietly, 

"  That  is  right.  Githa,  dear,  pull  yourself  together,  do 
208 


AN  OBJECT  LESSON 

not  let  yourself  go.  You  have  gone  through  a  great  deal 
since  we  last  met,  and  you  are  exhausted."  And  then 
she  told  me  to  sit  still  while  she  went  into  the  other  room ; 
and  a  moment  later  she  brought  me  a  restorative.  After 
a  few  minutes  I  was  less  confused,  but  for  some  time  she 
refused  to  go  on  with  our  talk.  She  took  up  her  needle- 
work, and  went  on  sewing,  but  all  the  time  she  was 
watching  me.    I  grew  impatient  of  the  silence  at  last. 

"  I  am  not  so  tired  now,"  I  observed ;  "  your  dose 
was  so  potent  that  it  has  warmed  me  through  and 
through." 

'"■  Yes,  your  colour  has  come  back,  but  you  were  not 
really  faint,  only  a  little  confused ;  I  understand  all  that 
so  well."  She  spoke  calmly,  but  there  was  a  sort  of  sigh 
in  her  voice.  "  Githa,  I  was  only  trying  to  help  you 
when  I  was  saying  all  that.  You  looked  so  terribly  dis- 
tressed, my  poor  child,  that  I  wanted  to  spare  you." 

"  You  were  very  good  to  me,  Reddy." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  nothing  that  I  would  not  do  to 
help  you.  I  can  quite  see  that  you  are  in  a  difficult  posi- 
tion. For  some  cause  your  parents  have  decided  to  live 
apart ;  that  fact  alone  must  point  to  complications." 

I  silently  acquiesced  in  this.  Miss  Redford  intuitively 
knew  or  guessed  so  much  that  it  was  clearly  inadvisable 
to  tell  her  more,  even  if  I  were  in  a  position  to  do  so. 
She  looked  at  me  wistfully,  hesitated,  and  then  went  on. 

"  There  is  something  I  want  to  ask  you,  Githa,  though 
I  am  half  afraid  to  do  so.  I  know  you  were  always  very 
much  attached  to  Mrs.  Darnell,  surely  the  knowledge  that 
it  is  she  who  is  your  own  mother  and  not  some  unknown 
stranger  gives  you  a  certain  pleasure  and  relief." 

The  question  seemed  a  difficult  one  to  me,  and  I 
hardly  knew  how  to  answer  it.  "  I  have  always  loved 
my  Cousin  Yvonne,"  I  replied  slowly.  "  I  have  trusted 
14  209 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  admired  her  all  my  life,  but  she  seems  to  have  grown 
suddenly  strange  to  me." 

"  That  is  because  you  are  confused,  my  dear.  You 
see  you  have  scarcely  recovered  from  the  shock." 

"  You  may  be  right,"  I  returned,  putting  up  my 
hands  to  my  forehead  in  a  bewildered  fashion ;  "  but  I 
feel  sometimes  as  though  it  is  too  impossible  to  believe ; 
it  is  like  talking  to  one's  dearest  friend  under  a  mask.  It 
is  not  Cousin  Yvonne,  it  is  some  one  else." 

Miss  Redford  smiled,  and  patted  my  hands.  "  Yes, 
I  know.  You  must  be  patient,  and  you  will  get  more 
accustomed  to  the  idea ;  when  shall  you  see  Mrs.  Darnell 
again  ?  " 

"  I  return  to  Bayfield  to-morrow."  She  seemed  sur- 
prised at  this. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  is  wise,  that  you  are  fit  to  go  ?  " 
Then  I  knew  that  she  was  a  little  anxious  about  me. 

"  I  promised,"  was  my  reply. 

"  Ah,  then  in  that  case  I  will  not  try  to  dissuade  you. 
I  suppose  Mrs.  Marland  will  go  down  with  you  ?  " 

"  We  have  not  arranged  that.  I  shall  talk  to  father 
this  evening;  if  he  agrees  I  shall  probably  remain  at 
Bayfield  for  ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  I  cannot  stay  away 
from  him  longer." 

She  nodded,  and  regarded  me  thoughtfully,  and  I 
felt  that  she  was  reading  me  like  an  open  book.  "  Poor 
child,"  she  said  softly;  but  she  made  no  objection  when 
I  told  her  that  it  was  growing  late  and  that  I  must  go. 

"  And  I  must  not  come  and  see  you  to-morrow  before 
you  start."  and  I  shook  my  head. 

"  I  think  not,  Reddy ;  I  shall  have  father.  Somehow 
it  seems  to  make  things  worse  to  talk  about  them,  but 
I  wanted  you  to  know."  And  then  I  would  have  bade 
her  good-bye,  but  she  told  me  to  wait  a  moment  and  she 

210 


AN  OBJECT  LESSON 

would  walk  with  me  to  St,  Olave's  Lodge.  At  the  gate 
she  kissed  me  most  affectionately,  and  begged  me  to  take 
things  more  simply  and  quietly.  "  And  remember  if  I 
can  do  anything  to  help  you,  Githa,  I  shall  be  only  too 
thankful  to  be  of  service,"  and  I  knew  she  meant  every 
word  she  said.  In  spite  of  her  abrupt  manner  and 
undemonstrative  nature  she  was  absolutely  sincere  and 
reliable.  She  would  go  through  fire  and  water  for  those 
she  loved,  and  take  no  credit  to  herself  for  her  self- 
sacrifice. 

I  was  glad  that  father  would  not  be  back  until  tea- 
time.  I  wanted  a  little  quiet  time  to  myself.  After 
luncheon  I  went  up  to  the  corner  room  and  sat  down 
by  the  open  window.  In  spite  of  the  freshness  of  the  air 
blowing  off  the  river  it  was  quite  warm  in  the  sunshine, 
and  I  scarcely  needed  the  light  wrap  I  wore.  There  had 
been  a  refreshing  shower  or  two  in  the  morning,  and  that 
"  clear  shining  after  rain  "  gave  an  indescribable  beauty 
to  the  scene.  Such  golden  lights  and  soft  shadows  on 
the  river,  such  wide  spaces  of  blue  sky  just  flecked  by 
white,  feathery  clouds. 

A  thrush  was  singing  his  spring  song  in  the  acacia 
below,  with  delicious  trills  and  breaks  of  fluting  melody. 
"  All  was  well,"  he  chanted ;  winter  was  over,  and  his 
nest  was  full.  He  was  singing  to  his  patient,  bright- 
eyed  mate,  who  was  intent  on  family  cares  under  the 
green  leaves.  They  were  young,  and  the  world  was 
young  too.  There  was  sunshine,  and  worms  were  plen- 
tiful, and  that  was  sufficient  for  bird  philosophy. 

Presently  a  little  steam  tug  snorted  noisily  as  it 
passed  with  a  train  of  empty  barges  in  tow.  In  the  last 
one  a  boy  lay  asleep  on  a  heap  of  sacks.  A  large  white 
dog  sat  erect  beside  him,  like  a  sentinel  on  guard. 

Just  beneath  my  window,  a  man  wheeling  a  heavy 

211 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

truck  of  plants  and  flowers,  had  paused  for  a  moment 
to  recover  his  breath.  He  was  a  heavily  built  man,  with 
a  club  foot,  but  he  looked  a  cheerful  creature.  A  mite  of 
a  child  in  a  queer  old  sunbonnet  was  laughing  at  him 
out  of  a  big  basket  in  the  midst  of  the  plants.  She  was 
sucking  a  piece  of  sugar-stick  with  immense  relish. 
Some  smartly  dressed  children  and  their  nurse  stood  for 
a  moment  to  watch.  One  of  the  children  carried  a  bag 
of  buns,  probably  for  the  nursery  tea  later  on.  She  was 
a  fair,  pretty  little  girl.  I  noticed  she  said  something 
to  her  nurse,  and  then  shyly  offered  a  bun  to  the  baby, 
who  gave  a  shout  of  delight  as  she  grabbed  at  it. 

"  'Ook,  Fardie,  a  cake  for  Bella,"  I  heard  her  say  in 
her  shrill  little  voice.  The  sunbonnet  was  pushed  back 
excitedly.  The  grimy  little  hands  were  as  full  as  the 
thrush's  nest.  Happy  Bella.  No  little  princess  could 
have  been  more  blissful  than  the  coster's  baby  in  the 
ragged  basket ;  for  her,  too,  the  sun  shone  and  the  world 
was  good.  I  was  becoming  interested.  I  wanted  to 
keep  sad  thoughts  at  bay,  to  rest  and  distract  myself,  and 
so  to  gather  strength  for  the  evening.  These  little  human 
comedies  diverted  me.  Before  the  truck  moved  on  there 
was  another  episode.  A  little  woman  in  shabby  black 
stood  on  the  pavement  looking  at  the  plants.  She  had 
some  pence  in  her  ungloved  hand,  and  her  covetous  glance 
was  fixed  on  a  pot  of  large  white  daisies,  tall,  with 
golden  discs,  such  as  grow  in  country  meadows  under 
hedgerows.  Mardie  came  to  bring  me  a  message  just 
then,  but  she  did  not  stay.  When  I  looked  out  again 
the  little  woman  was  carrying  the  pot  of  daisies  with  an 
air  of  proud  triumph.  Clearly  she  had  obtained  a  pos- 
session, and  for  her  the  sunshine  had  meaning. 

Just  then  a  well-known  figure,  a  neighbour  of  ours, 
stumbled  into  sight,  leaning  heavily  on  the  arms  of  a 


AN  OBJECT  LESSON 

man-servant.  Poor  old  Colonel  Thorne,  an  octogenarian, 
who  had  outlived  his  wife  and  family,  and  who  had  just 
fought  through  a  paralytic  seizure,  to  the  astonishment 
of  his  doctors  and  nurses.  The  old  man  with  the  scythe 
had  been  cheated  qf  his  prey,  for  a  time,  but  the  vigor- 
ous, gallant  soldier  was  now  a  pitiable  wreck.  Weakness 
and  senile  decay  were  stamped  on  each  loose,  uncertain 
movement.  Every  afternoon  at  this  hour,  when  the  sun 
shone,  he  passed  our  house  with  his  faithful  attendant, 
now  dragging  his  feet  with  difficulty  along  the  sunny, 
pavement,  and  now  resting  on  a  bench.  His  huddled-up 
figure  and  white  hair  streaming  over  his  fur  collar  always 
moved  me  to  pity.  And  yet  surely  for  him  there  were 
compensations.  His  battles  were  all  fought;  he  had 
worked  well ;  had  taken  his  losses  like  a  man.  His  dear 
ones  were  already  safe  in  the  harbour,  and  his  battered 
old  hulk  was  only  held  by  a  light  chain,  until  the  Captain 
gave  the  orders  to  loose  from  the  moorings. 

I  had  always  noticed  that  the  dim,  tired  eyes  turned 
involuntarily  to  the  river ;  nothing  else  seemed  to  interest 
him.  Perhaps  he  unconsciously  connected  it  with  that 
last  solemn  river,  which  even  his  faltering  footsteps  must 
pass,  the  waters  of  which  should  be  his  healing  and 
renewal.  So  even  for  him  there  was  the  warm  sunshine 
and  the  spring  breezes,  and  the  Father's  smile,  and  per- 
chance, before  long,  the  "  Well  done,  faithful  servant " 
to  be  spoken  by  the  Master.  My  quiet  rest-hour  had 
done  me  good,  and  I  was  more  ready  to  play  my  part  in 
the  evening. 

I  saw  at  once  that  father  was  not  in  good  spirits. 
The  shadow  of  our  parting  was  over  him.  He  never 
liked  me  to  leave  him,  even  for  a  day,  though  he  rarely 
mentioned  this  fact.  But  I  knew  him  too  well  to  be 
deceived  by  any  flimsy  attempts  at  cheerfulness. 

213 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

After  tea  he  asked  me  to  read  him  an  article  in  a 
magazine  which  he  thought  would  interest  us  both,  and 
the  dressing-bell  sounded  before  I  had  quite  finished  it. 

When  dinner  was  over  he  followed  me  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  was  still  too  early  in  the  season  to  sit  out- 
side on  the  balcony,  but  the  window  overlooking  the  river 
was  a  favourite  evening  resort. 

I  went  to  the  piano  and  played  as  usual,  until  it  was 
too  dark  to  see  the  notes,  and  then  father  rung  for  lights ; 
but  when  they  had  been  brought  he  came  to  my  side  for 
a  moment. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  going  by  the  usual  afternoon 
train  to-morrow,  Gipsy  ?  " 

I  nodded  assent. 

"  And  Mrs.  Marland  will  accompany  you  to  Bay- 
field?" 

"  If  you  think  that  is  still  necessary,  father." 

"  Yes — yes,"  with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "  I  do  not 
care  for  my  daughter  to  travel  alone.  You  are  too 
young  and  attractive,  Gip ;  and  now  tell  me  when  I  may 
expect  you  back." 

"  Could  you  spare  me  for  a  fortnight  ?  "  I  faltered. 
"  I  think — I  really  think — I  ought  to  stay  as  long  as 
that." 

His  face  clouded,  but  he  made  no  objection.  "  You 
are  the  best  judge,"  he  said  curtly.  "  Now,  and  for  the 
future,  I  shall  expect  you  to  decide  this  point  for  your- 
self." His  tone  did  not  quite  please  me,  but  I  let  it  pass, 
and  played  a  few  soft  chords  on  the  keys ;  but  the  next 
moment  his  hands  were  on  my  shoulder.  "  Will  my  little 
girl  always  be  loyal  to  me  ?  "  he  whispered  in  my  ears. 

I  drew  back  as  though  I  had  been  stung.  "  Father !  " 
was  all  I  could  say;  but  he  was  instantly  filled  with 
remorse. 

214 


AN  OBJECT  LESSON 

"  Hush !  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  darling.  Indeed 
I  did  not  mean  it.  "  Then,  as  I  leant  back  against  him, 
he  kissed  me  in  a  hurried,  fond  way.  "  No — no ;  it  is 
always  Darnell  and  Co.,  Gipsy,  always  Darnell  and  Co." 


315 


XXII 

SYDNEY  PROVES  AN  OPTIMIST 


I  follow,  follow,  sure  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  confident,  that  what  the  future  yields 
Will  be  the  right,  unless  myself  be  wrong. 

Longfellow. 

I  WAS  rather  surprised  and  disappointed  on  reaching 
Bayfield  the  following  afternoon  not  to  see  Sydney's 
bright  face  awaiting  me  on  the  platform,  and  I  was  just 
wondering  what  could  have  detained  her  when  Sam 
Moyle,  who  acted  as  gardener  and  coachman  at  Prior's 
Cot,  came  up  to  me,  smiling  broadly,  and,  touching  his 
hat,  handed  me  a  three-cornered  note. 

"  It  is  from  the  missus,"  he  observed ;  "  but  the  mare 
is  a  bit  fresh,  and  I  must  not  leave  her  " ;  and  then  he 
went  off.  We  all  liked  Sam.  He  was  an  honest,  reliable 
fellow,  and,  as  Cousin  Yvonne,  my  mother,  I  mean,  often 
remarked,  with  a  sigh  of  intense  satisfaction,  that  he  was 
worth  his  weight  in  gold. 

It  was  only  a  pencilled  line  from  her  telling  me 
that  Sydney  had  gone  on  the  river  with  Rhona  and 
Thurston  Wilde;  that  she  fully  expected  to  be  back  in 
good  time  to  meet  my  train,  but  that  probably  the  tide 
had  detained  them.  The  signature,  "Your  loving 
mother,"  made  me  flush  so  suddenly  that  I  saw  Mardie 
look  at  me  rather  curiously. 

I  explained  matters  to  her  and  bade  her  good-bye, 
but  she  waited  to  see  me  drive  off.     I  am  afraid  Sam 

216 


SYDNEY  PROVES  AN  OPTIMIST 

found  me  rather  a  quiet  companion  that  day.  It  was 
an  effort  to  rouse  myself  and  ask  questions  about  his 
wife  and  family.  There  were  five  boys  and  one  girl, 
and  they  were  all  blue-eyed  and  red-headed,  mischievous, 
sturdy  little  urchins,  who  were  their  father's  pride.  He 
fairly  chortled  with  joy  as  he  narrated  Bob's  last  prank 
and  the  saucy  ways  of  Jemmy,  who  was  the  last  baby 
but  one,  and  a  pickle  from  his  cradle.  I  used  to  fear 
that  Jane  Moyle,  who  was  a  subdued,  hard-worked  little 
woman,  found  her  unruly  infants  rather  a  trial.  Even 
little  Nancy  was  as  great  a  hoyden  as  her  brothers.  Sam 
was  just  telling  with  great  relish  of  the  young  pig  that 
he  and  his  missus  had  bought,  and  the  fine  stye  that  he 
had  made  for  it,  when  we  turned  down  the  lane  leading 
to  Prior's  Cot.  As  we  drove  in  the  gate  I  saw  a  hand 
waving  from  the  window  over  the  porch,  but  as  I  entered 
the  house  my  mother  was  crossing  the  hall  to  meet  me. 
Nothing  could  have  been  kinder  than  her  greeting-kiss, 
and  as  she  stood  holding  my  hands  there  was  a  new  look 
in  her  eyes,  as  though  her  mother  love,  so  unnaturally 
starved  and  repressed,  was  compelled  to  find  vent.  It 
gave  me  a  curious  thrill  as  I  recognised  this. 

"  You  had  better  have  some  tea  before  you  go  up 
to  your  room,  Githa,"  and  then  she  led  mc  into  the 
bright,  sunny  drawing-room.  And  as  I  took  my  wonted 
seat  beside  the  little  tea-table,  and  the  old  dreamy  feeling 
took  possession  of  me  again,  was  it  my  fancy  that  my 
mother  looked  thinner — yes,  and  a  little  older?  But  how 
beautiful  she  was  with  the  silvery  masses  of  hair  piled 
so  lightly  on  her  forehead,  and  those  dark,  melancholy 
eyes  that  looked  into  mine  so  lovingly. 

"  Your  train  was  very  punctual,  my  dear.  Poor 
vSydney  will  be  sadly  disappointed  at  missing  you.  I 
believe  they  all  meant  to  meet  you,  but  the  tide  must 

217 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

have  been  against  them.  They  took  their  hmcheon  with 
them, — it  is  such  a  lovely  day.  Rhona's  aunt,  Miss 
Etheridge,  was  with  them." 

Miss  Etheridge  was  a  stranger  to  me.  and  I  was  not 
sorry  to  have  missed  the  party.  I  did. not  say  so,  but  I 
am  sure  my  mother  understood,  for  as  she  handed  me  a 
cup  of  tea  she  looked  at  me  rather  intently. 

"  You  are  not  quite  well  yet,  Githa,"  she  observed, 
and  there  was  a  new  note  of  gentleness  in  her  voice. 
"  I  hoped  your  pretty  colour  would  have  come  back," 
touching  my  cheek  with  caressing  fingers. 

I  was  perilously  near  tears  at  this  moment,  she  was 
so  dear  and  loving.    Why  was  I  so  slow  to  respond  ? 

"  I  am  only  a  little  tired."  I  stammered.  Then  she 
sighed,  but  let  the  excuse  pass. 

"  How  long  shall  you  be  able  to  remain  with  me  ?  " 
was  her  next  question,  but  my  answer  did  not  seem  to 
fully  satisfy  her. 

"  Only  a  fortnight  " — then  she  checked  herself,  and 
her  manner  stiffened  for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  being  exacting,  Githa,"  she 
went  on.  "  You  are  of  an  age  now  to  make  your  own 
arrangements.  It  is  natural  that  I  should  wish  to  have 
you  with  me  as  much  as  possible,  but  I  realise  the  diffi- 
culty." Then  she  sighed  again  and  changed  the  subject 
a  little  abruptly  by  telling  me  that  Sydney  was  going 
up  to  town  the  following  Tuesday  to  stay  with  the 
Etheridges  for  a  few  weeks.  Mrs.  Etheridge  was  less 
well  than  usual  and  wished  to  consult  her  London  doctor ; 
an  old  friend  had  lent  them  a  house  for  a  month,  and 
they  had  invited  Sydney  to  accompany  them.  "  Miss 
Etheridge — Aunt  Laura  as  they  call  her — will  be  there 
too,"  continued  my  mother.  "  She  is  an  active,  sociable 
person,  and  will  take  the  girls  about  to   concerts  and 

218 


SYDNEY  PROVES  AN  OPTIMIST 

theatres ;  it  will  really  be  a  great  treat  to  Sydney,  only 
she  is  so  sorry  to  miss  so  much  of  your  visit." 

I  was  sorry  too,  and  yet,  perhaps,  under  the  circum- 
stances a  third  person  would  be  embarrassing;  it  would 
be  easier  to  find  opportunities  for  opening  my  heart  to 
my  mother  when  we  were  alone.  "  We  shall  both  miss 
her  I  am  afraid,"  I  returned;  and  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned it  was  certainly  the  truth,  but  my  mother  shook 
her  head. 

"  No,  I  am  glad  for  her  to  go  for  several  reasons. 
I  shall  like  to  have  you  to  myself  for  a  little,  Githa ;  dear 
Sydney,  sweet  and  good  as  she  is,  would  be  rather  de  trop 
just  now."  She  paused  a  moment  as  though  she  hoped 
for  some  response  on  my  part,  but  I  only  listened  silently, 
and  she  went  on :  "  And  there  are  other  reasons  why  I 
shall  be  thankful  to  get  her  away  from  Bayfield  for  a 
few  weeks.  I  begin  to  think  that  you  were  right,  and 
that  Thurston  is  paying  her  far  too  much  attention — 
there  is  no  keeping  them  apart.  He  and  his  dogs  are 
always  hanging  about  the  lane ;  she  can  go  nowhere  that 
he  does  not  waylay  or  follow  her.  If  this  went  on  I 
should  be  obliged  to  speak  to  Sydney,  but  I  am  unwilling 
to  do  that." 

"  It  would  be  better,"  I  said,  "  to  speak  to  Thurston  "  ; 
but  my  mother  did  not  seem  willing  to  do  this  at  present. 
Thurston  had  a  quick  temper,  she  remarked,  and  would 
readily  take  offence ;  his  will  was  strong,  and  if  he  were 
really  in  love  with  Sydney,  opposition  would  only  fan 
the  flame ;  the  little  break  would  be  good  for  both,  and 
when  Sydney  came  back  to  Bayfield  she  would  keep  a 
stricter  watch  over  the  girl,  and,  if  necessary,  give  her 
a  hint. 

"  I  suppose  Thurston  will  see  them  in  town,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

319 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Oh  yes,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,  for  he  told 
me  that  Colonel  Etheridge  had  given  him  a  general  invi- 
tation ;  but  he  will  hardly  venture  to  pay  Sydney  attention 
— there  are  too  many  chaperones,  and  he  will  certainly 
not  see  her  alone.  To  add  to  the  complication,  I  am 
afraid  poor  little  Rhona  is  beginning  to  care  for  him.  I 
was  at  the  Mount  yesterday  and  Thurston  came  in  with 
a  message  from  his  grandmother,  and  Rhona  flushed  up 
so  when  she  saw  him — she  really  looked  quite  pretty  for 
the  moment — but  Thurston  hardly  noticed  her." 

I  think  all  this  talk  was  just  a  ruse  on  my  mother's 
part  to  put  me  at  my  ease ;  it  was  evident  that  my  looks 
did  not  satisfy  her — things  had  gone  more  deeply  with  me 
than  she  had  supposed.  She  had  cheated  herself  with  the 
idea  that  I  was  too  young  to  suffer — that  I  should  placidly 
adapt  myself  to  the  situation ;  but  she  found  my  reserve 
and  nervousness  a  little  baffling. 

She  took  me  up  to  my  room  after  that.  The  toilet 
table  was  decked  with  the  loveliest  spring  flowers,  and 
I  knew  that  she,  and  not  Sydney,  had  gathered  and 
arranged  them.  When  I  thanked  her  she  only  looked  at 
me  with  a  wistful  smile. 

"  I  scarcely  slept  all  night  for  pleasure  at  the  thought 
that  you  would  be  lying  here  to-night  " ;  and  her  hand 
touched  the  pillow.  "  How  I  have  longed  for  you, 
darling,  night  and  day,  night  and  day  " ;  and  then  with  a 
sudden  break  in  her  voice :  "  Be  good  to  me,  dear  child, 
and  let  me  see  you  more  like  your  old  self  during  the 
short  time  we  are  together."  But  before  I  could  answer 
her  she  had  left  the  room. 

There  was  a  lump  in  my  throat  as  I  began  to  dress 
myself,  and  my  eyes  were  hot  and  smarting  with  repressed 
tears.  My  mother's  tenderness  only  added  to  my  pain. 
I  felt  as  though  I  were  being  torn  asunder  between  these 


SYDNEY  PROVES  AN  OPTIMIST 

two.  "  Surely,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  if  my  mother  needs 
me  so  much,  she  will  not  refuse  to  listen  to  me;  for  my 
sake  she  will  be  more  ready  to  yield."  And  then  in  the 
sweet  evening  light  I  knelt  down  with  the  brief  prayer 
that  when  the  right  time  came  I  might  have  courage  and 
strength  to  speak,  and  that  her  love  for  her  child  might 
teach  her  to  forgive ;  and  after  that  I  felt  a  little  less 
troubled. 

I  even  repeated  to  myself  a  few  lines  by  Sutton  that 
I  had  committed  to  heart  that  very  morning.  They  had 
taken  my  fancy,  and  I  had  stored  them,  as  a  bee  stores 
honey,  for  future  use ;  they  were  strangely  applicable 
now : 

Who  uses  prayer,  a  friend  shall  never  miss; 
If  he  should  slip,  a  timely  staff  and  kind 
Placed  in  his  grasp  by  hands  unseen  shall  find ; 
Sometimes  upon  his  forehead  a  soft  kiss, 
And  arms  cast  round  him  gently  from  behind. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  there  was  a  light  tap  at 
the  door,  and  Sydney's  clear  voice  demanding  admission ; 
and  the  next  moment  she  was  hugging  me  as  though 
we  had  been  parted  for  years  and  not  days.  She  looked 
flushed,  excited,  and  rather  perturbed,  and  she  was 
panting  with  the  haste  she  had  made. 

"  Oh,  Githa,  I  never  was  more  sorry  about  anything. 
We  all  meant  to  meet  you  and  bring  you  home  in  the 
wagonette,  but  it  was  Thurston's  fault.  He  would  not 
allow  sufficient  time  for  the  return  journey,  and  the  tide 
was  against  us,  and  we  were  nearly  an  hour  late ;  and  the 
wagonette  was  wanted  for  Colonel  Etheridge ;  and  we 
had  to  walk  home  all  that  way.  Rhona  and  I  would  not 
have  minded,  but  Aunt  Laura  was  so  cross — she  is  not 
a  good-tempered  person,  though  nice  in  her  way — and 

221 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Thurston  was  annoyed,  so  I  can't  say  I  enjoyed  my 
walk." 

"  You  look  very  hot  and  tired,  Sydney." 

"  Oh,  that  was  just  the  worry  of  missing  the  train. 
But  Aunt  Yvonne  told  me  that  there  was  no  time  to 
chatter,  and  that  we  must  wait  until  dinner."  And  then 
Sydney  hugged  me  again,  and  I  knew  by  the  way  she 
looked  at  me  that  she  was  dying  for  a  talk. 

The  opportunity  soon  came.  It  was  a  lovely  evening, 
and  the  air  felt  as  though  it  were  June,  and  the  moon 
was  rising.  Sydney,  who  seemed  exhilarated  rather 
than  tired  by  her  river  excursion,  begged  us  both  to 
come  out  in  the  garden ;  but  my  mother  refused. 

"  Githa  will  go  with  you,"  she  observed.  "  There  is 
a  letter  that  I  really  must  finish ;  but  you  must  not  keep 
her  out  too  long,  as  she  has  had  a  journey." 

"  Oh  no,  I  will  take  care  of  her,"  rejoined  Sydney, 
tucking  my  arm  under  hers.  "  The  air  is  just  delicious 
this  evening — like  snow  and  honey  and  a  dash  of  cream 
— a  regular  syllabub  of  good  things,"  laughing  and  hurry- 
ing me  away. 

All  through  dinner  she  and  I  had  discussed  the 
London  visit,  and  my  mother  had  listened  to  us  silently, 
only  putting  in  a  word  now  and  then.  It  was  a  safe 
subject,  and  Sydney  had  a  good  deal  to  tell  me  about  her 
own  and  Rhona's  plans.  There  were  visits  to  the  dentist, 
as  weW  as  theatres  and  concerts.  "  Colonel  Etheridge 
means  to  take  us  to  the  Royal  Academy,  and  to  the  Tate 
Gallery,  and  the  National  Gallery  as  well.  He  is  per- 
fectly devoted  to  pictures.  He  has  found  out  that  Rhona 
has  never  been  to  the  National  Gallery,  and  he  was  quite 
shocked  about  it.  He  told  her  that  he  should  take  her 
art  education  in  hand,  but  I  don't  believe  that  Rhona 
cares  much  about  pictures;  and,  oh,  Githa,  we  are  both 

222 


SYDNEY  PROVES  AN  OPTIMIST 

to  have  riding  lessons   in  town,  and   Aunt  Yvonne  is 
giving  me  a  habit." 

We  all  knew  why  Sydney  was  talking  so  eagedy 
about  her  promised  treat.  I  am  sure  she  felt  the  air  a 
little  electric,  and  was  afraid  of  an  embarrassing  silence, 
and  I  seconded  her  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 

Sydney's  manner  quite  changed  directly  we  found 
ourselves  outside. 

"  Let  us  go  down  the  lane,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  No  one  will  ever  hear  us  there,  and  the  moonlight  on 
the  meadow  is  so  lovely  " ;  and  as  I  agreed  to  this  she 
gave  my  arm  a  little  squeeze. 

"  It  will  be  such  a  comfort  to  talk  to  you  quietly, 
Githa  dear ;  it  really  seems  weeks  since  Monday.  Aunt 
Yvonne  told  me  that  night,  and  I  was  so  excited  and 
happy  that  I  could  not  sleep  for  hours." 

I  felt  a  little  surprised  to  hear  her  say  this.  I  knew 
that  Sydney  had  a  beautiful  nature,  but  I  never  thought 
that  she  was  so  absolutely  free  from  all  taint  of  jealousy 
or  selfishness.  In  her  place  as  Cousin  Yvonne's  adopted 
(laughter,  the  unexpected  arrival  of  a  real  daughter  would 
have  made  me  feel  out  in  the  cold ;  but  Sydney  had  none 
of  this  shivery  self-consciousness. 

"  How  could  I  help  being  happy,"  she  returned  a 
little  reproachfully,  "  that  you  should  have  such  a  dear 
wonderful  mother?  Of  course,  as  I  told  7\unt  Yvonne, 
it  seems  a  little  strange  at  first,  and  that  we  should  have 
to  get  used  to  the  situation ;  but  that  did  not  make  it 
any  the  less  joyful.  Oh,  how  touching  and  sweet  Aunt 
Yvonne  was  that  night !  I  could  not  help  crying  as  I 
listened  to  her.  I  think  no  mother  ever  loved  her  child 
as  she  loves  you." 

"  If  she  had  loved  me  a  little  more  she  would  hardly 
have  left  me."  Then  Sydney  stood  still  in  the  moon- 
light, and  I  saw  that  her  face  was  rather  grave. 

223 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  Githa  dear ;  but 
I  am  sure  that  you  do  not  really  mean  it.  Don't  you 
see  what  a  grand  and  noble  thing  it  was? — to  sacrifice 
herself  for  her  husband ;  it  almost  broke  her  heart  to 
do  it." 

"  Yes — and  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  as  I  did.  You 
must  forget  it,  for  dearly  as  I  love  my  new  mother  I  am 
not  at  all  happy.  How  am  I  to  do  my  duty  to  my  parents  ? 
They  both  want  me;  but  I  think — nay,  I  am  sure — that 
my  father  needs  me  most.  Sydney,  you  look  at  every- 
thing in  such  a  bright,  hopeful  way,  that  you  do  not  see 
all  the  complications." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right,"  in  a  low  voice.  "  But 
I  think  I  do  understand  the  difficulty,  only  I  believe  it  will 
be  solved  somehow.  Aunt  Yvonne  only  told  me  as 
much  as  she  thought  necessary.  There  was  trouble,  and 
she  and  Mr.  Darnell  had  decided  to  live  apart.  You  were 
left  to  your  father's  care  on  condition  that  you  were  not 
informed  of  your  mother's  identity  until  you  were  of  an 
age  to  judge  for  yourself.  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  perplex- 
ing for  us  to  understand ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  of  one 
thing — that  when  Aunt  Yvonne  took  this  singular  step 
she  thought  she  was  doing  the  right  thing." 

I  let  this  pass,  for  I  found  it  almost  impossible  to 
answer  such  speeches  truthfully.  Could  it  be  that  I  had 
inherited  my  mother's  nature  after  all?  I  could  forgive 
— oh  yes,  thank  God,  I  could  forgive — but  I  could  not 
understand.  I  had  an  innate  conviction  that  my  mother's 
complex  personality  would  present  obstacles  that  I  might 
not  easily  surmount.  Surely  with  a  little  more  patience, 
a  little  more  love,  all  this  suffering  and  misery  might 
have  been  averted.  This  was  Aunt  Cosie's  opinion,  and 
I  felt  that  I  agreed  with  her. 

Sydney  went  on  talking  in  her  sweet  way.  She  was 
224 


SYDNEY  PROVES  AN  OPTIMIST 

overflowing  with  affection  and  sympathy,  and  said  so 
many  nice  things  about  my  mother,  that  I  felt  deeply 
grateful. 

"Have  I  comforted  you  a  little,  Githa  dearest?"  she 
asked  wistfully.  "  Will  you  try  and  think  more  hopefully 
about  the  future  ?  " 

"  I  will  try  my  best,"  I  returned.  "  I  am  afraid  I  am 
disappointing  you  because  I  am  not  happier,  but  you 
must  not  misunderstand  me.  I  am  very  grateful  for  the 
new  blessing  vouchsafed  to  me,  but  I  am  weighed  down 
with  a  sense  of  responsibility.  Oh,  Sydney !  if  I  could 
only  bring  about  a  reconciliation  between  those  two  dear 
people." 

"  And  what  then,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Ah,  then,  young  as  I  am,  I  feel  as  though  I  could 
use  old  Simeon's  prayer,  and  that  the  Angel  of  Forgive- 
ness and  I  would  smile  at  each  other  through  the  ages." 

I  am  afraid  Sydney  thought  I  was  talking  a  little 
wildly — for  how  could  she  know  what  I  meant?  But 
she  was  full  of  tender  concern  when  I  suddenly  burst 
into  tears,  for  I  was  still  weak  and  overwrought ;  but 
the  relief  did  me  good.  No,  I  shall  never  forget  how 
gentle  and  dear  she  was  that  night. 


15  225 


XXIII 
GOLLIWOG  AND  LOT'S  WIFE 


You  ask  for  the  effect  to  follow  cause 

Too    soon    and    visibly.     'Twere    well    to    wait. 

The  pears  upon  my  trees  are  still  but  green. 

But  they  will  ripen  in  the  summer  sun. 

Our  vanity  would  do  all  things  at  once ; 

God  takes  His  time  and  puts  us  all  to  shame. 

Aaron  Watson. 

We  had  stayed  out  so  long  that  my  mother  came  in 
search  of  us.  She  wore  a  grey  silk  gown  that  evening, 
and  as  she  walked  down  the  lane  towards  us  in  the  clear 
white  moonlight,  with  a  fleecy  wrap  thrown  over  her 
head,  she  looked  like  some  fair,  stately  wraith — more  like 
a  vision  than  a  living  woman. 

"  Sydney,  is  this  wise?  Githa  is  tired  from  her  jour- 
ney and  is  not  as  strong  as  usual."  She  spoke  gently, 
but  there  was  implied  reproach  in  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,  Aunt  Yvonne,"  returned  Sydney 
penitently.  "  It  was  so  lovely  in  the  lane,  and  we  were 
talking  and  forgot  all  about  the  time." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  imagined.  Do  you  know, 
children,  that  it  is  past  nine  o'clock?" 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  mother  noticed  that  I  had 
been  shedding  tears ;  but  she  put  her  arm  round  me,  and 
we  all  walked  back  a  little  silently,  and  I  was  not  sorry 
when  she  begged  me  to  go  up  to  my  room. 

"  I  will  say  good-night  to  you  when  I  come  upstairs," 
226 


GOLLIWOG  AND  LOT'S  WIFE 

she  observed.  "  I  hope  I  shall  find  you  in  bed  by  then." 
But  though  she  kept  her  word,  I  was  relieved  to  see 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  stay  and  talk  to  me.  She  only 
asked  me  if  I  were  comfortable,  and  hoped  that  I  should 
sleep  well ;  and  then  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  me  she 
whispered,  "  God  be  with  you,  darling,"  and  left  me 
alone  in  the  moonlight. 

I  was  so  spent  and  weary  that  I  soon  fell  asleep ; 
and  I  remember  that  something  she  had  said  to  me  that 
afternoon  was  my  last  waking  thought :  "  How  I  have 
wanted  you  night  and  day — night  and  day." 

"  That  is  how  mothers  feel,"  I  said  to  myself  drowsily ; 
"  mothers — and  fathers  too  " ;  and  then  I  sank  into  a 
heavy  slumber. 

When  I  woke  the  next  morning  I  was  glad  to  remem- 
ber that  it  was  Sunday.  From  a  child  I  had  always 
loved  Sundays  at  Bayfield.  There  was  something  so 
peaceful  in  the  Sabbath  stillness  that  seemed  to  brood 
over  the  village ;  the  children  with  freshly  washed  faces 
and  clean  frocks,  tripping  by  in  twos  and  threes  to  the 
Sunday  School ;  the  little  group  of  village  lads  loitering  on 
the  green  until  the  church  bell  had  stopped ;  the  dropping 
of  curtseys  from  the  old  women  in  the  porch  when  the 
ladies  from  Prior's  Cot  made  their  appearance, — and  then 
the  hearty,  simple  service.  Yes,  even  our  dear  old  Chelsea 
church,  where  we  went  morning  and  evening,  did  not 
appeal  to  me  so  strongly. 

"  It  always  seems  so  much  more  like  Sunday  in  the 
country,"  I  once  said  to  father;  and,  as  usual,  he  under- 
stood and  agreed  with  me. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Gip.  I  have  often  felt  the 
same." 

We  were  walking  along  the  Embankment  when  he 
said  this;  and  then  we  stopped,  as  a  pleasure  steamer, 

227 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

full  of  people,  passed  us.  A  band  was  playing,  and  some 
children  were  dancing  on  the  deck.  Some  smartly  dressed 
girls,  arm-in-arm  with  their  sweethearts,  were  strolling 
towards  Battersea  Park  ;  rough  lads  were  lounging  on  the 
benches  and  making  remarks  on  the  passers-by ;  now  and 
then  a  carriage,  full  of  gaily-attired  women,  rolled  by ; 
church  bells  were  ringing,  but  they  fell  on  deaf  ears. 
Then,  and  often,  my  thoughts  had  turned  longingly  to 
the  Sunday  at  Bayfield. 

During  the  week  I  had  often  thought  of  Mr.  Carlyon's 
kindness  to  me  during  the  journey  home.  I  felt  grateful 
to  him  for  his  silent  sympathy.  He  had  said  little,  but 
his  manner  had  implied  so  much.  Nothing  could  have 
exceeded  the  delicacy  of  his  tact  and  his  wish  to  help  me, 
and  I  told  myself  more  than  once  that  he  would  be  a 
friend  for  adversity. 

I  longed,  yet  I  dreaded  to  see  him  again,  for  I  knew 
the  sight  of  him  would  bring  back  the  remembrance 
of  the  old  bewildered  pain,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  should 
see  him  first  in  church.  Sydney  wanted  me  to  go  with 
her  to  the  Sunday  School,  but  I  made  some  excuse,  and 
remained  quietly  in  my  room  trying  to  read  until  it  was 
time  to  dress  for  church. 

I  found  the  service  very  soothing.  I  fancied  that 
Mr.  Carlyon  glanced  at  our  pew  as  he  entered ;  his  sermon 
was  beautiful  and  exceedingly  helpful,  only  it  was  far  too 
short.  In  the  evening  a  stranger  preached,  and  I  am 
afraid  my  attention  wandered  a  good  deal. 

I  had  found  it  very  difficult  to  keep  thought  at  bay ; 
the  remembrance  of  my  last  Sunday  evening  and  the 
momentous  talk  with  my  mother  came  back  with  disturb- 
ing force.  I  felt  sure  by  her  manner,  and  a  certain  pained, 
drawn  look  in  her  face,  that  my  mother  shared  this 
feeling.     Throughout  the  day  she  had  talked  only  of 

228 


GOLLIWOG  AND  LOT'S  WIFE 

passing  things — a  book  she  had  been  reading,  and  which 
she  thought  would  interest  me ;  and  she  made  me  come 
round  the  garden  with  her  in  the  afternoon  to  show  me 
some  improvements  she  had  planned.  "  I  like  to  have 
your  opinion  about  things,  Githa,"  she  said  in  the  old,  kind 
way ;  and  though  I  knew  little  about  such  matters,  I 
praised  eagerly  everything  that  she  pointed  out — so  great 
was  my  desire  to  please  her.  I  remember  once  when  she 
was  showing  me  the  new  carnation-bed,  that  I  called  her 
Cousin  Yvonne  by  mistake,  and  that  I  flushed  so  hotly 
that  my  face  quite  burnt ;  but  she  only  put  out  her  hand 
to  me,  with  rather  a  sad  smile. 

"  I  forgot,"  I  said,  feeling  ashamed  of  my  awkward- 
ness ;  "  please  forgive  me,  mother." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  nothing  to  forgive — a  trifling 
mistake  like  that  is  only  natural  " ;  and  then  she  went 
on  talking  about  a  projected  flower-border.  She  wanted 
to  put  me  thoroughly  at  my  ease — to  make  me  feel  more 
at  home  in  my  new  role  of  daughter.  Perhaps  for  the 
first  time  she  realised  my  difficulty ;  it  was  no  new  idea  to 
her  all  these  years.  I  had  been  her  child,  the  hidden 
treasure  of  her  heart,  on  whom  she  had  watched  from 
afar  with  mute  mother-love — for  her  there  were  no  fresh 
developments  or  complications.  She  had  only  to  open 
her  arms  and  say  to  me,  "  Githa,  T  am  your  mother  " ; 
that  was  all. 

But  for  me  it  was  different,  and  I  was  sure  from  her 
manner  that  afternoon  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
be  patient  with  me,  and  to  win  the  confidence  of  my  young 
heart  by  only  the  gentlest  means,  and,  above  all  things, 
not  to  let  me  know  how  my  new  reserve  pained  her. 
Dear  mother,  it  grieves  me  even  now  to  think  how  I  must 
have  disappointed  her!  After  supper  that  night  mother 
played  on  the  organ   as  usual,  and   Sydney  and  I   sat 

229 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

together  in  the  window  seat.  It  was  not  quite  dark,  and 
the  moon  was  rising,  but  the  organ  lamps  had  been 
Hghted.  The  radiance  streamed  full  on  my  mother's 
face — on  the  pale,  perfect  profile — the  beautiful  hands, 
with  their  glittering  rings,  moving  so  rapidly  over  the 
keys — and  this  fair,  queenly  woman  was  my  mother ! 
A  sudden  thrill  of  pride  of  possession  seemed  to  pass 
through  me.  I  felt  at  that  moment  a  strange  yearning 
to  kneel  down  by  her  and  take  her  hands,  "  Mother,  come 
home  with  me ;  we  both  need  you  so  much  " ;  and  so 
overpowering  was  the  impulse  to  say  those  words,  that 
but  for  Sydney's  presence  I  must  have  yielded  to  it. 

The  next  morning  I  found  plenty  of  occupation  in 
writing  to  father  and  helping  Sydney  to  pack.  She  talked 
in  her  cheerful  fashion  all  the  time,  and  hindered  me  a 
good  deal ;  but  she  wanted  to  explain  to  me  clearly  how 
sorry  she  was  to  leave  me,  and  at  the  same  time  she  did 
not  attempt  to  disguise  her  pleasurable  anticipations. 
"  I  am  getting  very  fond  of  Rhona,"  she  went  on ;  "  she 
rather  grows  on  one.  She  is  really  very  unselfish,  and 
has  such  a  sweet  temper,  and  she  has  far  more  in  her 
than  you  would  ever  guess." 

"  Take  care,  Sydney,"  I  returned  warningly,  as  I 
folded  her  new  evening  dress.  "  Rhona  may  be  all  very 
well,  but  I  won't  have  you  liking  her  best." 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  that,"  with  a  merry  laugh.  "  By 
the  bye,  Githa,  if  you  only  stay  here  a  fortnight  we  shall 
be  able  to  meet  in  town  " ;  and  then  we  two  fell  to  making 
plans. 

When  Colonel  Etheridge  took  them  to  the  Tate  Gal- 
lery, they  must  all  have  luncheon  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge, 
and  she  and  Rhona  must  come  for  a  long  day.  "  I  would 
rather  have  you  by  yourself,  Syd,"  I  continued  frankly; 
"  but  we  must  not  be  unkind  to  poor  Rhona,  and  we  must 

230 


GOLLIWOG  AND  LOT'S  WIFE 

have  riding  expeditions  together."  But  the  rest  of  our 
plans  awaited  development,  for  at  that  moment  my  mother 
came  in  to  see  how  we  were  getting  on,  and  to  remind 
us  that  it  was  nearly  luncheon-time. 

Sydney  wanted  to  say  good-bye  to  the  twins,  and 
urged  me  to  accompany  her  to  the  Vicarage.  She  seemed 
rather  surprised  when  I  hesitated.  "  We  shall  see  no  one 
but  the  children,"  she  continued ;  "  for  even  Peace  is  away 
to-day,  and  Thurston  told  me  yesterday  that  he  and  the 
vicar  were  going  to  Henley  this  afternoon  " ;  and  after 
this  I  made  no  further  demur. 

We  found  the  twins  playing  in  the  garden.  There 
was  a  curious  assemblage  on  the  lawn — all  Stella's  dolls 
had  been  brought  out  for  an  airing,  and  sat  in  a  row  on 
the  grass,  headed  by  Cyril's  special  fetish,  a  huge  Golli- 
wog. This  creature  was  the  object  of  his  tenderest  devo- 
tion ;  he  refused  to  go  to  sleep  unless  the  black  head 
reposed  on  the  pillow  beside  him.  "  Dear  Duckems,"  as 
he  termed  it,  "  wanted  to  be  cuddled."  When  Peace 
objected  to  this  arrangement,  Stella  took  his  part. 

"  Of  course  Cyril  wanted  his  little  black  boy  to  be 
happy — poor,  dear  Golly,  it  had  no  nice  father  or  mother 
to  love  him."  And  as  Stella  ruled  the  nursery,  the  limp 
figure  of  the  orphaned  Golliwog  soon  occupied  its  accus- 
tomed place.  Cyril  was  employed  at  the  present  moment 
in  loading  a  small  red  cart  with  stones,  with  which  he 
proposed  to  mend  the  road,  as  he  called  it — a  narrow, 
uneven  path  leading  to  a  small  fernery.  Both  the  children 
hailed  us  joyfully,  and  Stella  took  a  flying  leap  into  my 
arms. 

"  Why,  it  is  our  own  dear  Girlie  comed  back,"  she 
shouted ;  and  Cyril,  echoing  placidly,  "  Girlie  comed 
back,"  hung  affectionately  on  my  dress.  Their  joy  over 
me  was  so  touching,  and  they  kissed  and  loved  me  in 

231 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

such  an  engaging  way,  that  I  was  obhged  to  sit  down  on 
the  grass  and  hug  them  both.  Sydney  regarded  us  from 
the  background  with  amused  eyes.  I  had  to  remind  Stella 
that  she  was  performing  the  part  of  hostess  rather  imper- 
fectly ;  she  only  shrugged  a  plump  shoulder,  and  turned 
a  trifle  pettishly.  "  Oh,  Herberts  is  always  here ;  we  are 
used  to  her,  aren't  we,  Cyril?  "  and  Cyril  nodding  gravely, 
and  muttering  sotto  voce,  "  Erberts  always  here,"  went 
ofT  to  his  road-mending. 

"  I  shall  not  be  here  to-morrow,"  observed  Sydney 
plaintively.  "  I  am  going  away  for  a  whole  month,  Stella  ; 
that  is  four  weeks — thirty-one  days." 

Stella  tossed  back  her  curly  mane,  and  regarded  her 
old  friend  from  under  her  long  eyelashes  in  quite  an  irre- 
sistible way;  but  she  was  in  one  of  her  wilful  moods.  If 
Stella  lived  to  grow  up,  she  was  likely  to  break  a  good 
many  hearts ;  from  her  birth  she  had  been  a  baby  flirt, 
and  before  she  could  walk  she  had  dispensed  her  favours 
with  the  air  of  a  princess. 

For  some  occult  reason  "  her  dear  Herberts  "  was  not 
in  her  good  graces.    Stella  only  looked  bored. 

"  A  month  isn't  long,"  she  remarked  carelessly. 
"  Come  and  see  my  children.  Girlie  dear.  Cyril  told 
Golliwog  to  mind  them ;  doesn't  he  look  beautiful  in  his 
new  red  tie?  Boy  says  he  is  a  regular  Masher;  didn't 
he,  Cyril  ?  " 

"  Paul  said  he  was  regularly  mashed,"  observed 
Cyril  thoughtfully ;  then  his  manner  changed  as  he  caught 
sight  of  an  unusually  large  stone. 

"  I  have  got  a  milestone,  Stella,"  he  exclaimed  joy- 
fully ;  "  such  a  great,  big,  white,  lovely  stone  " ;  but  Stella 
eyed  it  with  scant  interest. 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  milestones ;  don't  interrupt, 
Cyril.     I  want  Girlie  to  be  introduced  to  the  family  " ; 

232 


GOLLIWOG  AND  LOT'S  WIFE 

and  Cyril,  who  seemed  to  have  no  will  of  his  own,  sat 
down  on  the  gravel  and,  with  a  red  face,  tugged  at  his 
milestone. 

The  introductions  took  a  long  time.  Stella  was  a 
little  exacting  in  her  demands.  The  limp  kid  or  waxen 
hands  were  all  to  be  shaken,  and  a  kiss  imprinted  on 
each  rosy  cheek.  Stella  would  not  let  me  off  one.  I 
began  to  wish  the  family  was  smaller.  There  were  six- 
teen dolls  of  all  sizes,  and  I  had  to  hear  the  name  and 
history  of  every  one.  Stella  wished  me  to  kiss  the  Golli- 
wog too,  but  I  avoided  the  situation  by  saying  that  I  never 
kissed  any  gentleman  but  father ;  and  I  spoke  so  gravely 
and  seemed  so  shocked  at  the  idea  that  even  Stella  seemed 
surprised.  We  played  kiss-in-the-ring  after  this,  but  it 
was  such  a  very  small  ring  that  there  were  many  kisses 
and  short  runs;  and  then  Cyril,  who  had  seemed  rather 
absent  in  his  mind,  slipped  his  grimy  little  hand  in  mine 
and  begged  me  to  help  him  set  up  his  milestone.  Stella, 
who  never  liked  to  be  out  of  anything,  accompanied  us. 

"  Isn't  it  a  great,  big,  lovely  stone,"  he  chuckled,  "  and 
won't  the  road  look  grand  ?  "  But  Stella's  face  wore  a 
judicial  air. 

"  The  road  is  all  holes,  and  the  poor  dear  ants  do 
look  so  unhappy,  and  the  stone  is  far  too  big,  Cyril." 
She  put  her  head  on  one  side  reflectively.  "  Oh,  I  have 
got  such  a  ducky  idea — it  will  make  such  a  splendid  Lot's 
wife  turned  into  a  pillar  of  salt ;  that  is  ever  so  much 
nicer  than  milestones.  Do  set  it  up,  Cyril,  and  we  will 
bring  Boy,  and  ask  him  to  preach  a  sermon  about  it." 

But  for  once  Cyril  looked  unhappy. 

"  Must  I,  Stella— really  and  truly  !  " 

"  Of  course  you  must,  and  Herberts  will  help  you," 
was  Stella's  peremptory  response. 

Then  Cj^ril  slowly  and  reluctantly  set  uj)  the  monu- 
233 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

ment.  As  he  did  so  we  heard  him  murmur  under  his 
breath,  in  rather  a  distressed  way :  "  Poor  Lot's  wife — 
turned — into — pillar — of — salt — woman — want  to  love 
her,  and  be  kind  to  her  "  ;  and  the  dear  little  fellow  looked 
ready  to  cry.  I  was  glad  when  Sydney  coaxed  him  away 
from  the  damp  path  and  its  distressing  memories,  and 
proposed  Hide-and-Seek  and  Puss-in-the-Corner. 


234 


XXIV 

"GITHA,  YOU  FORGET  YOURSELF" 


How  easy  is  the  thought  in  certain  moods  of  the  loveliest, 
most  unselfish  devotion !  How  hard  is  the  doing  of  the  thought 
in  the  face  of  a  thousand  difficulties ! — G.  MacDonald. 

God  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell  with  Him  above; 
The  tender  one  was  Pity,  and  the  dearest  one  was  Love. 

Whittier. 

I  DROVE  to  the  station  with  Sydney  the  next  morning, 
and  on  our  way  we  passed  Thurston  and  his  dogs ;  he 
was  walking  very  fast,  as  though  he  were  in  a  desperate 
hurry,  and  the  dogs  were  barking  and  racing  each  other 
from  the  sheer  joy  of  exercise.  I  saw  a  conscious  flush 
on  Sydney's  face  as  she  smiled  and  waved  her  hand. 

"  I  said  good-bye  to  him  yesterday,"  she  observed  care- 
lessly. "I  suppose  he  has  some  business  in  the  town"; 
but  she  did  not  look  at  me  as  she  said  this,  and  I  was 
sure  from  her  manner  that  she  was  fully  aware  of  the 
business  that  brought  him  to  Great  Bayfield.  In  a  sur- 
prisingly short  time,  considering  the  distance,  he  joined 
us  on  the  platform.  He  had  some  flowers  in  his  hand, 
which  he  gave  to  Sydney,  to  refresh  her  on  the  journey. 
He  said  it  laughingly,  for  of  course  it  was  an  absurdly 
short  journey.  Sydney  would  be  at  Belmont  House  and 
would  probably  have  unpacked  before  luncheon ;  but 
Thurston  had  cut  the  choicest  blossoms  in  the  hothouse, 
and  had  arranged  quite  an  exquisite  little  bouquet.     For 

235 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

once  in  her  life  Sydney  looked  excessively  nervous ;  she 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  flowers,  and  seemed  scarcely 
able  to  look  at  either  of  us.  I  am  sure  it  was  quite  a  relief 
to  her  when  the  train  started. 

I  could  not  help  watching  Thurston.  I  thought  he 
had  never  looked  to  such  advantage ;  it  was  impossible 
to  deny  that  he  was  a  most  strikingly  handsome  young 
man.  The  strain  of  Spanish  blood  in  his  veins  was  appar- 
ent in  his  pale  olive  complexion  and  dark  hair  and  eyes. 
When  his  face  was  in  repose  there  was  rather  a  proud 
expression  about  the  mouth ;  the  short  upper  lip  curled 
a  little  disdainfully  under  the  black  moustache ;  but  his 
smile  was  particularly  pleasant  and  winning,  his  tempera- 
ment was  ardent,  and  he  would  know  how  to  play  the 
role  of  a  lover  better  than  most  men. 

I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  him  tell  Sydney  that  he 
would  probably  be  in  town  the  following  week,  and  should 
certainly  call  at  Belmont  House;  but  I  am  sure  Sydney 
looked  a  little  frightened  when  he  said  this. 

Thurston  did  not  ask  me  to  drive  him  back,  as  I 
expected ;  he  said  he  had  a  note  for  the  mill  half  a  mile 
farther,  and  that  he  and  the  dogs  needed  exercise.  They 
were  certainly  uiuisually  frolicsome ;  I  saw  them  leaping 
on  him  as  he  left  the  station,  as  though  they  were  a  pack 
of  puppies. 

I  thought  my  mother  looked  a  little  vexed  when  I 
narrated  this  episode.  "  Foolish  fellow,"  she  said  impa- 
tiently, "  he  is  just  stirring  up  a  hornet's  nest,  and  no 
good  will  come  of  it." 

The  next  three  or  four  days  passed  very  quietly  and 
pleasantly;  if  there  were  hidden  undercurrents,  the  sur- 
face was  smooth  and  unruffled. 

Every  morning,  while  my  mother  discharged  her 
housekeeping  tasks,  I  wrote  to  father.    I  had  little  news 

236 


GITHA,  YOU  FORGET  YOURSELF 

to  tell  him,  but  I  knew  how  he  loved  to  see  a  letter  in  my 
handwriting  lying  beside  his  plate  when  he  came  down 
to  breakfast.  When  my  mother  came  into  the  room  she 
never  took  any  notice  of  my  employment. 

''  When  you  have  finished,  Githa,  we  will  go  into  the 
village;  but  there  is  no  hurry,  we  have  the  day  before 
us,"  she  would  invent  some  such  speech  as  that. 

My  mother  had  not  recovered  her  normal  strength, 
and  could  not  walk  far;  but  we  pottered  about  the  cot- 
tages, and  looked  in  at  the  school,  and  killed  time  very 
agreeably.  We  generally  took  a  long  drive  in  the  after- 
noon, coming  back  to  a  late  tea ;  but,  with  the  exception 
of  St.  Helen's  Towers,  we  paid  no  visits.  I  thought  Lady 
Wilde  was  not  quite  as  cordial  in  her  manner  to  either 
of  us ;  but  I  did  not  venture  to  question  my  mother,  even 
when  she  said  very  kindly  that  she  feared  I  had  not 
enjoyed  my  visit — a  fact  which  I  could  not  deny.  I  was 
afraid  to  continue  the  subject,  and  I  could  not  be  sure  that 
the  truth  had  not  leaked  out.  Lady  Wilde  was  not  a 
sympathetic  person  ;  she  disliked  secrets  and  mysteries, 
and  was  rather  intolerant  and  critical  on  matters  she  did 
not  fully  understand. 

In  the  evening  we  generally  had  music,  or  my  mother 
read  to  me.  She  had  a  beautiful  voice,  which  much 
enhanced  the  interest  of  the  story.  She  had  a  great 
partiality  for  poetry,  especially  sacred  poetry,  and  it  was 
she  who  taught  me  to  love  The  Christian  Year  all  my 
life  long.  I  shall  never  forget  the  exquisite  timbre  and 
sadness  of  her  voice  when  she  once  repeated  from  memory 
those  lines — 

Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone, 
Since  all  alone,  so  Heaven  has  willed,  we  die? 

Not  even  the  tcnderest  heart,  and  next  our  own, 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  and  sigh. 

227 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Young  as  I  was,  it  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  I  was 
quite  content  to  sit  at  my  fancy  work  and  Hsten.  I  am 
sure  no  outsider  watching  us  could  have  detected  any- 
thing to  mar  the  perfect  harmony  and  peace  of  the  scene ; 
and  yet  at  times,  when  we  had  been  silent  for  a  few 
minutes,  I  had  raised  my  eyes  from  my  work  and  found 
my  mother's  gaze  fixed  on  me  with  a  grave  intensity 
that  bordered  on  sadness.  Those  glances,  so  penetrating 
and  yearning,  always  brought  back  the  old  ache.  Clearly 
she  was  not  satisfied  or  happy  about  me ;  and  yet  was  it 
all  my  fault? 

To  my  regret,  I  had  not  yet  seen  Mr.  Carlyon.  He 
had  called  one  afternoon  when  we  were  driving,  and  had 
not  repeated  his  visit.  I  do  not  know  if  it  were  my  fancy 
that  my  mother  seemed  rather  relieved  that  we  had  missed 
him ;  at  least,  her  manner  gave  me  this  impression ;  and 
yet  I  knew  how  much  she  thought  of  him. 

One  evening,  when  I  had  been  playing  as  usual,  my 
mother  asked  me  to  sing  to  her.  I  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  she  repeated  her  request.  My  voice  was  not  as  clear 
as  usual,  and  I  felt  it  was  not  under  my  control.  I  became 
a  little  nervous,  and  broke  off  presently,  saying  that  I 
was  out  of  practice,  and  that  I  was  acquitting  myself  too 
badly  to  give  her  any  pleasure.  She  accepted  my  excuses 
rather  gravely,  and  I  closed  the  piano,  and  came  to  the 
table  to  take  up  my  work ;  but  she  checked  me. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  read  to-night,  Githa ;  like  you, 
I  am  not  in  the  mood."  Her  manner  made  me  vaguely 
uneasy. 

"  I  am  sorry !  but  indeed  I  could  not  sing  to-night, 
mother,"  I  said  hastily ;  "  I  really  have  neglected  practis- 
ing lately." 

"  That  is  a  pity,"  she  returned  a  little  dryly ;  "  it  is 
not  right  to  let  yourself  go  like  this,  Githa."    I  felt  rather 

238 


GITHA,  YOU  FORGET  YOURSELF 

hurt  by  this  remark ;  surely  she  must  know  why  I  could 
not  sing.     But  the  next  moment  her  manner  softened. 

"  We  are  both  a  little  out  of  gear  to-night,"  she 
observed  kindly ;  "  supposing  we  talk  instead." 

"  Do  you  mean  I  am  not  to  work  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  will  both  be  idle  for  an  hour,  Githa,  my 
dear.  You  have  been  here  nearly  a  week,  half  your  visit 
is  over,  and  yet  we  have  said  little  to  each  other." 

It  was  the  truth,  though  I  quaked  nervously  to  hear 
her  say  it. 

"  And  yet  we  have  talked  a  good  deal,"  was  my  some- 
what lame  rejoinder. 

*'  Oh  yes,  we  have  talked.  It  is  easy  to  skim  over  the 
surface  in  an  easy,  birdlike  fashion,  but  one  should  go 
deeper  than  that.  Githa,  I  have  watched  you  closely  these 
five  or  six  days,  and  it  has  struck  me  more  than  once 
that  Cousin  Yvonne  came  closer  to  you  than  your 
mother." 

"  No,  no ;  how  can  you  say  such  things !  " 

''  But  if  it  be  the  truth,  my  dear,  would  it  not  be 
wiser  to  face  it  ?  "  She  looked  at  me  with  wistful  tender- 
ness, and  there  was  a  faint  trembling  about  her  beautiful 
mouth  and  chin,  always  with  her  a  mark  of  intense  agita- 
tion. "  Darling,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  in  what  way  my 
love  has  been  remiss — have  I  not  been  good  to  you?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  have,"  I  returned  with  emotion. 
"  No  mother  could  have  been  kinder." 

"  And  yet  you  cannot  reconcile  yourself  to  the  fact  of 
our  relationship.  You  could  love  Cousin  Yvonne  and 
open  your  heart  to  her  freely ;  there  was  little  or  nothing 
that  you  kept  back  from  her ;  and  you  are  reserved  and 
retiring  with  her  now  you  know  she  is  your  mother." 

I  could  not  answer  her,  it  was  all  so  absolutely  true. 

"  Is  this  right  or  reasonable?  "  she  went  on.  "  I  have 
239 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

not  changed,  nothing  is  really  changed ;  as  your  father 
and  I  were  relations,  it  is  still  the  truth  that  I  am  your 
Cousin  Yvonne.  But  I  am  your  mother  as  well,  who 
nearly  died  in  giving  you  life,  and  watched  over  your 
infancy  with  such  love  that  no  other  mother  could  sur- 
pass ! " 

Oh,  the  wonderful  passion  of  her  voice  as  she  said 
this ;  it  thrilled  me  through  and  through !  If  I  could  only 
make  her  understand  what  I  really  felt — the  yearning 
pity,  the  afifection,  the  sense  of  utter  helplessness. 

"  Indeed,  I  love  you  mother,"  I  faltered.  "  If  you 
'could  only  read  my  heart,  and  know  how  I  long  to  be  all 
you  desire,  and  to  make  your  life  happier!  But  I  am  so 
young  to  have  such  a  burden  laid  on  me.  If  it  were  only 
you,  but  there  is  father,"  and  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes 
at  the  mention  of  that  beloved  name. 

I  saw  a  pained  expression  cross  her  face ;  the  hand 
she  laid  on  mine  was  rather  cold. 

"  Do  you  think  I  forget — that  I  do  not  realise  all  the 
difficulty,  Githa?  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  be  exact- 
ing, or  make  unreasonable  demands  on  your  young  life. 
You  are  no  longer  a  child,  you  are  of  an  age  to  judge; 
give  me  as  much  or  as  little  of  your  time  as  you  think 
best.  I  am  used  to  loneliness,  only  for  pity's  sake  do  not 
shut  me  out  of  your  confidence." 

I  could  have  sobbed  aloud  at  the  tenderness  of  her 
voice ;  proud  as  she  was,  she  could  stoop  to  humbly  entreat 
her  child's  love. 

"  Try  to  be  patient  with  me,"  I  pleaded.  "  I  want 
to  be  all  that  a  daughter  should  be,  but  just  now  I  feel 
confused  and  sad." 

"  Why  sad,  my  darling?  " 
"  Because  I  cannot  do  my  duty  to  you  both ;  because 
one  or  other  of  the  two  dearest  to  me  on  earth  must  be 

240 


GITHA,  YOU  FORGET  YOURSELF 

lonely  and  wanting  me,  and  the  knowledge  gives  me 
pain." 

"  Poor  child — yes,  I  see — your  nature  is  sensitive,  and 
you  feel  things  more  keenly  than  I  guessed ;  but  it  was 
right  for  you  to  know,  Githa." 

I  assented  so  vehemently  to  this  that  rather  a  bitter 
smile  came  to  her  lips. 

"  That  means  that  you  blame  me  for  letting  you  grow 
up  in  ignorance." 

"  No,  do  not  say  that ;  it  is  not  for  me  to  blame  my 
mother ;  doubtless  you  had  your  reasons ;  but  it  was  a 
mistake.  I  shall  always  feel  that;  it  has  certainly  added 
to  the  difficulty." 

Her  gravity  grew  deeper,  but  she  evidently  did  not 
resent  my  frankness.  She  had  asked  for  my  confidence, 
and  she  must  not  shrink  from  any  chance  wound. 

"  In  that  case  it  is  clearly  my  duty  to  help  you,"  she 
returned  quietly.  "  I  see  your  position,  Githa :  you  cannot 
content  one  parent  without  leaving  the  other  sore  and 
dissatisfied.  Well,  that  is  no  fault  of  yours.  Let  me  try 
to  solve  the  difficulty.  You  and  your  father  are  every- 
thing to  each  other ;  from  a  mere  infant  you  loved  him 
best.  Do  you  think  I  do  not  recognise  the  fact — that  I 
have  not  faced  it  all  these  years?  Go  on  as  you  have 
been  doing,  let  him  have  the  lion's  share  of  your  time  and 
affection  ;  you  are  the  mistress  of  his  house,  and  you  must 
not  neglect  your  duties.  I  will  be  content — yes,  I  mean 
it,  Githa — with  such  fragments  as  you  can  spare  me." 

"  You  cannot  really  mean  that,  mother." 

"  But  I  do,  my  dear ;  have  I  not  said  more  than  once 
that  I  am  used  to  loneliness?  If  I  were  ill  or  dying  I 
knov\^  you  would  come  to  me.  Let  it  be  as  I  say,  and  try 
and  be  at  peace,  my  child.  There  shall  be  no  specified 
conditions,  you  shall  be  free  as  air.    When  you  come  your 

l6  241. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

mother  will  welcome  you  gladly ;  when  you  stay  away 
there  shall  be  no  word  of  reproach  to  harm  you."  How 
generous  she  was ;  certainly  at  that  moment  I  loved  her 
well.  "Will  this  content  you,  Githa?  "  putting  her  hand 
on  my  shoulder  with  a  brave  smile.  Then  again  an  over- 
powering impulse  seized  me ;  whatever  came  of  it  I  must 
speak. 

"  No,"  I  returned,  and  my  voice  sounded  a  little 
strange  to  me.  "  Am  I  made  of  stone,  that  anything  so 
unnatural  could  satisfy  me?  Mother,  dearest  mother, 
father  and  I  both  love  you — we  both  want  you — come 
home." 

"  Githa !  "  I  am  sure  for  the  moment  that  she  did  not 
believe  her  ears. 

"  Come  home,"  I  repeated  earnestly ;  "  your  place  is 
ready,  it  has  been  ready  all  these  years.  Oh,  mother, 
listen :  father  wants  you,  and  he  and  I  will  make  you  so 
happy  " ;  but  she  freed  herself  from  my  grasp,  and  drew 
herself  up  to  her  full  height.  She  had  grown  white  to  her 
very  lips,  but  there  was  no  yielding  in  her  voice. 

"  Githa,  you  forget  yourself,"  she  said  quietly,  and 
then,  without  looking  at  me,  left  the  room. 


■zaa 


XXV 

"GO  ON  WITH  YOUR  MISSION" 


Argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand,  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope;  but  still  bear  up  and  steer  right  onward. 

Milton. 

On  bravely  through  the  sunshine  and  the  showers, 
Time  hath  his  work  to  do,  and  we  have  ours. 

Emerson. 

A  FEELING  akin  to  despair  took  possession  of  me  as  the 
door  closed  behind  my  mother,  a  sense  of  humiliation 
which  was  hard  to  bear. 

I  had  done  no  good,  rather  the  reverse,  by  my  earnest 
appeal.  I  had  been  silenced,  and  put  into  my  right  place 
— rebuked  for  my  officiousness — told  in  plain  terms  that 
I  had  meddled  with  business  which  I  did  not  understand. 
All  this  had  been  conveyed  to  me  in  those  four  words, 
"  Githa,  you  forget  yourself." 

My  mother's  inflexible  will  had  sealed  my  lips.  I  had 
hurt,  angered  her.  Instead  of  being  drawn  nearer,  I  felt 
that  the  distance  had  widened  between  us. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  bitterness  of  my  disap- 
pointment, the  utter  blankness  that  seemed  to  engulf  me 
— this  was  how  I  had  commenced  my  mission  of  reconcili- 
ation. Then  as  I  remembered  my  dream,  and  the  fair 
vision  of  the  Angel  of  Forgiveness,  my  tears  fell  faster 
and  faster.  I  was  so  young;  even  now  when  I  think  of 
that  hour  T  am  filled  with  pity  for  that  weeping  girl,  sud- 

243 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

denly  brought  face  to  face  with  the  stern  reahties  of  life. 

It  was  as  though  a  blank  wall  suddenly  closed  my 
path,  and  I  could  take  no  step  forward  without  hurt  or 
damage.  "  I  may  as  well  give  it  up,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  and  try  and  make  up  to  father  for  all  he  has  to  bear." 
My  mother's  stern  rebuff  had  so  repelled  and  unnerved 
me  that  I  turned  to  him  with  a  new  yearning — my  father, 
who  had  never  spoken  a  harsh  or  severe  word  to  me  in 
my  life ;  how  could  I  be  sad  and  lonely  as  long  as  I  had 
him !  I  do  not  know  how  the  next  hour  passed.  My 
tears  had  ceased,  but  I  was  still  sitting  brooding  heavily 
over  my  trouble,  when  my  mother  re-entered  the  room. 
She  was  still  very  pale,  but  she  had  evidently  been  making 
a  great  effort  to  regain  her  composure. 

"  It  is  very  late,  Githa,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Jane  is 
coming  in  directly  to  shut  up  and  extinguish  the  lamps  ; 
you  had  better  go  to  bed."  Then  as  she  saw  my  face 
more  clearly,  she  came  across  the  room  to  me  and  put 
her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "  I  am  not  angry,"  she  said 
very  gently ;  "  it  grieves  me  to  see  that  you  have  been 
fretting — it  was  a  mistake,  but  you  meant  it  for  the  best  "  ; 
and  then  she  kissed  me  with  more  than  her  wonted  affec- 
tion, but  I  fear,  I  greatly  fear,  that  I  did  not  respond. 

I  did  not  sleep  for  hours — I  could  not  rid  myself  of 
a  vague  expectation  that  she  would  come  to  me  in  the 
darkness,  but  she  never  came ;  and  though  I  fevered 
myself  with  listening  for  her  step,  I  could  hear  no  move- 
ment— perhaps  she  too  kept  midnight  vigil ! 

When  I  entered  the  breakfast-room  the  next  morning 
mother  gave  me  a  scrutinising  look,  but  she  made  no 
remark ;  only,  when  we  had  finished  our  meal  she  observed 
that  she  was  likely  to  be  engaged  for  an  hour  or  two. 
"  I  should  advise  you  to  take  a  walk,  Githa,"  she  went  on, 
"  there  is  nothing  like  air  for  a  headache."     I  had  not 

244 


GO  ON  WITH  YOUR  MISSION 

told  her  that  my  head  ached,  but  I  suppose  she  drew  her 
own  conclusions. 

As  the  idea  of  letter-writing  was  abhorrent  to  me,  I 
acted  on  this  advice.  I  was  in  that  unhappy  mood  when 
one  is  only  fit  for  one's  own  society — any  casual  talk 
would  have  jarred  on  me.  I  had  slept  badly  and  felt 
unusually  weary,  and  after  a  slow  stroll  I  sat  down  on  a 
little  bench  that  had  been  placed  on  the  grassy  border  of 
the  road,  and  tried  to  pull  myself  together  and  get  my 
thoughts  into  order.  It  was  a  quiet,  secluded  road,  and 
there  were  few  passers-by  to  disturb  me — a  boy  leading 
a  kid,  and  two  little  girls  carrying  a  basket  between  them, 
a  waggoner  walking  beside  his  gaily  caparisoned  team 
carrying  sacks  of  flour  from  the  mill. 

By  and  by  a  tall  figure  that  I  seemed  to  recognise 
came  across  the  meadow,  and  vaulted  over  the  stile  with 
the  ease  of  a  practised  athlete.  I  was  a  little  troubled  to 
see  it  was  Mr.  Carlyon.  As  the  stile  was  just  opposite 
the  bench,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  pass  without 
seeing  me — indeed,  I  was  sure  from  his  manner  that  he 
had  recognised  me  long  before  I  saw  him.  He  shook 
hands  very  cordially,  and  then  sat  down  beside  me.  His 
first  question  was  why  my  little  Yorkshire  terrier  was  not 
with  me  as  usual ;  had  I  left  him  in  town  ? 

"  Oh  no,"  I  returned,  "  Roy  always  accompanies  me 
to  Bayfield,  but  he  was  so  busily  engaged  this  morning 
hunting  for  imaginary  rabbits  in  the  wilderness  that  I 
would  not  disturb  him." 

He  smiled  at  that. 
"  I  was  sorry  to  find  you  and  Mrs.  Darnell  out  the  other 
afternoon.     I   rather  thought  of  repeating  the  attempt 
either  to-day  or  to-morrow." 

"  You  had  better  come  a  little  later,"  I  observed ; 
"  we  are  seldom  back  from  our  drive  before  five." 

245 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  I  will  remember  that."  Then,  with  a  quick  change 
of  tone,  "  Miss  Darnell,  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  are 
still  far  from  well — I  hoped  that  your  f^w  days  at  home 
would  have  done  you  good."  He  looked  at  me  with  grave 
kindness  as  he  spoke;  his  tone,  quiet  as  it  was,  conveyed 
to  me  that  he  was  sorry  to  see  my  changed  look. 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  am  not  ill,"  rather  miserably, — 
"  I  mean  not  physically  ill  " ;  for  there  are  maladies  of 
the  mind  more  difficult  to  diagnose,  and  infinitely  more 
painful. 

He  paused  a  moment,  hesitated  as  though  not  sure  of 
his  ground.  "  Miss  Darnell,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  you  are 
in  trouble.  I  should  like  to  help  you  if  possible — if  you 
would  not  think  me  impertinent  or  interfering." 

"  '  Interfering,'  "  almost  indignantly.  "  Oh,  if  you 
only  could  help  me ;  but  I  fear — I  greatly  fear — that  no 
one  can  lift  my  burden." 

"  No  one  human,  perhaps,"  in  a  tone  which,  gentle  as 
it  was,  seemed  to  revive  my  want  of  faith.  "  Will  it 
make  things  a  little  easier  if  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  know 
the  cause  of  your  trouble  ?  "  I  looked  at  him,  too  much 
surprised  to  speak.  How  had  he  guessed  it  ?  But  his  next 
speech  fully  enlightened  me.  "  The  day  after  my  return 
from  town  I  called  at  Prior's  Cot.  I  found  Mrs.  Darnell 
looking  ill  and  much  depressed.  We  had  a  long  talk,  and 
she  was  good  enough  to  confide  in  me,  and  tell  me  much 
about  her  former  life.  She  said  that  she  had  always  in- 
tended to  do  so,  that  she  owed  it  to  me  as  her  clergyman." 

"  Then  you  know !  "  but  here  I  stopped  rather 
awkwardly. 

"  I  know  that  Mrs.  Darnell  is  your  mother,"  he  went 
on  calmly ;  "  but  I  shall  surprise  you  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  had  already  guessed  that  fact  before  she  said  a  word  to 
me. 

246 


GO  ON  WITH  YOUR  MISSION 

"  But  why — how — what  can  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked  in 
some  perplexity. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  what  I  said  to  you  that  after- 
noon in  the  railway  compartment — that  I  have  strange 
intuitions  at  times  ?  As  I  sat  opposite  to  you  I  was  struck 
by  a  decided  likeness  to  Mrs.  Darnell — you  were  in  pain, 
and  your  eyes  were  closed.  In  spite  of  the  dissimilarity 
of  colouring,  there  was  a  remarkable  resemblance  between 
you ;  the  truth  seemed  to  flash  into  my  mind.  You  were 
in  great  trouble,  that  was  evident.  I  saw  at  once  you  had 
had  a  shock.  There  were  other  reasons,  which  I  will  not 
mention,  which  strengthened  me  in  my  surmise ;  if  you 
knew  them  you  would  not  be  surprised  that  I  said  to 
myself,  '  Mrs.  Darnell  is  her  mother,  and  she  is  just  aware 
of  the  fact.'  " 

I  was  intensely  relieved  by  this  explanation — I  do 
not  know  why ;  but  I  was  glad  and  thankful  that  my 
mother  had  given  Mr.  Carlyon  her  confidence.  I  knew 
how  good  his  influence  would  be ;  his  knowledge  of  the 
world  and  human  nature  was  so  great  that  he  was  less 
likely  to  fail  by  want  of  tact. 

"Did — did  my  mother  tell  you  all,  Mr.  Carlyon?" 

"  She  told  me  a  great  deal  which,  pardon  me,  must 
be  sacred  even  from  her  daughter." 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  that,"  with  a  faint  blush.  "  So 
far  from  expecting  you  to  repeat  anything  that  passed 
between  you,  I  have  refused  to  allow  any  one  to  tell  me 
things  " ;  and  then  in  a  very  stumbling  fashion,  and  with 
many  hesitations  and  pauses,  I  made  him  understand  how 
I  had  felt  the  worshipping  love  for  my  father  which 
refused  to  listen  to  anything  that  threw  discredit  on  his 
honoured  name ;  the  pity  and  yearning  sadness  I  felt  on 
my  mother's  account;  my  ardent  desire  for  a  reconcilia- 
tion. 

247 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

I  could  see  from  Mr.  Carlyon's  intent  look  how  deeply 
he  was  interested.  Now  and  then  he  said  a  word  or  two 
to  encourage  me,  and  at  times  when  I  paused  he  would 
annotate  some  speech ;  when,  for  instance,  I  spoke  of 
my  affection  for  my  father,  and  my  desire  to  spare  him 
pain,  he  said  in  his  quiet  way,  "  One  can  so  fully  under- 
stand that ;  he  was  mother  as  well  as  father  to  you,  and 
you  held  him  with  both  hands." 

And  again,  when  I  spoke  of  my  distress  at  my  mother's 
evident  unhappiness,  he  returned  rather  quickly,  "  It  is  not 
wise  to  make  large  demands  on  human  nature ;  it  is  so 
much  better  to  expect  little,  and  then  '  the  m.uch  '  comes 
as  a  glad  surprise."  I  found  this  speech  a  little  enigmat- 
ical. I  fancied  that  he  was  alluding  to  my  mother,  and 
did  not  wish  to  speak  too  plainly.  Perhaps  even  Mr. 
Carlyon,  with  all  his  experience  and  wisdom,  found  her 
a  baffling  personality — ice  without  and  fire  within — a 
bed-rock  of  obstinate  reserve  and  threatening  volcanic 
upheaval, — certainly  not  an  easy  nature  to  master. 

Perhaps  his  sympathetic  manner  drew  me  near ;  he 
certainly  inspired  me  with  confidence,  and  I  found  myself 
telling  him  things  which  it  surprised  me  to  remember 
afterwards,  though  I  did  not  repent  even  then. 

I  have  a  keen  remembrance  of  his  moved  look  when 
I  told  him  of  my  intense  longing  for  a  reconciliation ;  I 
heard  him  say,  as  though  to  himself,  "  Poor  child,  and 
yet  the  age  of  miracles  has  passed." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  also  are  hopeless  of 
results?"  I  asked  in  a  dejected  tone. 

Then  he  seemed  to  take  counsel  with  himself.  "  I 
will  not  deceive  you,"  he  returned  slowly:  "as  far  as  I 
can  judge,  there  is  no  adequate  cause  why  Mrs.  Darnell 
should  not  take  her  rightful  place  in  your  home.  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  time  has  come  for  her  to 

248 


GO  ON  WITH  YOUR  MISSION 

do  so,  and  that  she  is  making  a  sad  mistake  if  she  does 
not  reaUse  this." 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  sure  you  would  say  that !  "  clasping 
my  hands. 

"  Any  one  would  say  the  same ;  and  yet,  humanly 
speaking,  I  can  see  very  little  reason  to  be  hopeful.  It 
is  not  possible  for  me  to  speak  plainly,  but  there  is  no 
harm  in  my  saying  this  one  thing — your  mother  has  a 
higher  ideal  than  most  people.  She  has  also  a  strong 
will.  I  was  wrong,  let  me  confess  it,  in  saying  that  the 
age  of  miracles  was  past.  It  was  a  faithless  speech,  and 
I  cry  shame  to  myself  for  having  uttered  it.  Can  anything 
be  too  hard  for  the  Lord  ?  "  There  was  a  touch  of  priest- 
liness  in  his  voice  which  awed  me  a  little,  but  when  he 
next  spoke  there  was  a  new  gentleness  in  his  voice. 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  break  the  bruised  reed. 
Miss  Darnell,  let  me  say  one  word  of  comfort.  Do  not 
renounce  your  mission ;  go  on  as  you  are  doing — only 
pray  more,  and  be  patient.  '  Blessed  are  the  peace- 
makers ' — take  that  as  your  motto  for  the  present — yea, 
and  they  shall  be  blessed."  He  stopped  abruptly,  and 
rose  from  his  seat  and  paced  up  and  down  once  or  twice 
while  I  watched  him.  He  had  given  me  little  hope,  and 
yet  I  felt  soothed  and  in  some  measure  comforted.  "  Go 
on  as  you  are  doing,  and  pray  more,  and  be  patient  " — did 
he  guess  how  I  needed  patience?  And  then  he  had  pro- 
nounced that  benediction.  When  he  came  back  to  me  I 
held  out  my  hand  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Carlyon,  you  have  been  very  kind. 
I  will  try  and  take  your  advice." 

"  I  have  not  helped  you  much,  I  am  afraid  " — retain- 
ing my  hand  in  his  firm,  warm  grasp — "  but  at  least  I  can 
promise  you  my  prayers  " ;  and  then  he  sat  down  again 
beside  me  and  asked  me  in  the  kindest  manner  if  there 

249 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

was  anything  else  he  could  do  for  me,  any  point  on  which 
he  could  advise  me. 

I  considered  this  for  a  moment. 

"  I  should  like  your  opinion  on  one  thing,"  I  returned 
presently ;  "  am  I  wrong  in  thinking  that  my  duty  lies 
principally  with  my  father?  I  am  so  strongly  biassed 
that  I  fear  my  own  wishes  may  blind  me  a  little." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean ;  you  would  like  an  unpreju- 
diced opinion.  No,  Miss  Darnell,  I  cannot  see  how  you 
can  do  otherwise ;  you  are  in  a  measure  responsible  for 
the  care  of  your  father's  household.  You  cannot  desert 
your  post." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you." 

He  gave  me  a  friendly  little  smile  at  that.  "  Do  not 
add  to  your  difficulties  by  too  much  introspection.  Take 
things  as  simply  as  you  can.  Believe  me,  there  is  rare 
virtue  in  simplicity;  that  is  why  children  are  such  object 
lessons  to  us.  Shall  we  walk  back  now  ?  We  can  talk  as 
we  go;  and  will  you  let  me  change  the  subject?  You 
look  tired,  and  we  may  as  well  let  worries  lie  like  sleeping 
dogs.  I  want  to  tell  you  something  which  rather  amused 
me  just  now — indeed  I  could  not  help  smiling  as  I  crossed 
the  meadow.  I  think  you  and  Mrs.  Darnell  take  a  great 
deal  of  interest  in  old  Peggy  Knowles." 

"  Oh  yes,  the  dear  old  thing !  but  mother  and  I  are  so 
afraid  that  she  is  going  to  die." 

"  Peggy  is  not  afraid  " — with  a  reassuring  smile ;  "  we 
have  been  having  a  long  talk  this  morning.  She  thinks 
she  is  not  likely  to  see  the  sun  rise  again,  and  she  was 
anxious  to  set  her  house  in  order.  She  was  always  a 
methodical,  tidy  sort  of  body ;  and  in  my  experience,  Miss 
Darnell,  people  die  very  much  as  they  have  lived — the 
old  habits  cling  to  them  like  well-worn  garments." 

"  But  Peggy  is  such  a  good  old  woman." 
250 


GO  ON  WITH  YOUR  MISSION 

"  Granted ;  but  even  good  old  women  have  their  little 
harmless  fads  and  fancies.  Peggy  wanted  me  to  reassure 
her  on  a  few  trifling  points.  Her  worldly  possessions 
were  not  many,  nevertheless  she  felt  as  great  a  sense  of 
responsibility  with  regard  to  them  as  though  she  were  a 
multi-millionaire.  When  her  mind  was  relieved  I  read  to 
her.  I  chose,  as  I  generally  do  in  such  cases,  the  four- 
teenth of  St.  John — '  In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions.'  "  He  smiled  again  to  himself  at  the  recollec- 
tion, and  then  went  on :  "I  was  a  trifle  surprised  when 
Peggy  seemed  still  a  little  restless  and  uneasy;  her  face 
grew  long  and  pitiful  as  a  child's. 

"  '  What  is  the  trouble,  Peggy  ? '  I  asked,  laying  down 
the  book.  '  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  grand  thing  that  our 
heavenl)-  home  should  be  made  all  ready  for  us  ? ' 

"  '  It  is  not  that,  sir,'  she  returned ;  '  it  is  the  thought 
of  the  fine  big  house  that  worries  me  a  bit.  It  is  not  as 
though  Steeve  and  I  had  children — and  what  should  we 
do  with  a  grand  mansion  all  to  ourselves?  Vicar,  dear,' 
pulling  at  my  sleeve  in  a  coaxing  way,  '  aren't  there  no 
cottages  in  Heaven?  '  I  hope  it  will  not  shock  you,  Miss 
Darnell,  that  I  assured  the  poor  old  thing  that  I  had  not 
a  doubt  of  it."  And  as  he  looked  at  me  with  that  kind, 
humorous  smile,  I  forgot  my  sadness  in  a  girlish  laugh. 


251 


XXVI 

STELLA  DELIVERS  MY  MESSAGE 


Where  love  is  there  cometh  sorrow,  to-day  or  else  to-morrow. 
Endure  the  mood,  love  only  means  our  good.  .  .  . 
Be  love  thy  watch  and  ward,  be  love  thy  starting-point. 
Thy  goal  and  thy  reward. 

C.     ROSSETTI. 

Life  is  measured  by  intensity,  not  by  dial,  dropping  sand,  or 
watch. — George  MacDonald. 

As  we  crossed  the  little  Goose  Green  before  the  Vicarage 
gate,  Mr,  Carlyon  looked  at  his  watch  and  exclaimed  at 
the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

"  I  see  Mrs.  Darnell  coming  round  the  corner  of  the 
lane,"  he  observed ;  "  she  is  probably  looking  out  for 
you.  Will  you  explain  to  her  that  I  am  expecting  an  old 
friend  to  luncheon,  and  as  his  train  was  due  half  an  hour 
ago,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  is  already  in  my 
study  awaiting  me ;  so  I  must  not  stay  another  moment. 
I  will  call  at  Prior's  Cot  another  afternoon." 

He  lifted  his  hat  with  a  pleasant  smile.  In  spite  of 
his  grey  hair,  and  the  lines  that  trouble  had  traced  upon 
his  face,  he  looked  young,  alert,  and  full  of  life.  I  have 
never  seen  any  one  in  the  least  like  Mr.  Carlyon ;  his 
personality  was  at  once  unique  and  complex.  There  was 
a  strange  mixture  of  strength  and  tenderness  about  him, 
and  a  certain  lurking  sense  of  humour  that  saved  him 
from  pessimism.    He  was  not  a  man  to  speak  easily  of  his 

252 


STELLA  DELIVERS  MY  MESSAGE 

deepest  feelings ;  his  innate  dignity  and  sense  of  what 
was  fitting  in  his  position  forbade  this.  I  had  heard 
people  call  him  proud  and  reserved.  Lady  Wilde  once 
said  so,  and  my  mother  had  been  quite  indignant  with  her, 
and  had  defended  him  with  a  good  deal  of  spirit.  And 
as  we  walked  back  through  the  plantations  she  had  been 
almost  crushing  in  her  remarks  on  Lady  Wilde's  want  of 
perception. 

"  The  fact  is,  a  woman  like  Lady  Wilde,"  she  observed, 
"  is  quite  incompetent  to  judge  of  a  fine  nature  like  Mr. 
Carlyon's ;  she  does  not  in  the  least  understand  him. 
His  pride  is  simply  self-respect,  and  his  reserve  is  only 
natural  under  the  circumstances " ;  and  as  I  learnt  to 
know  him  better,  I  fully  agreed  with  her. 

Mr.  Carlyon  was  right.  My  mother  had  grown  uneasy 
at  my  prolonged  absence. 

"  I  thought  Mr.  Carlyon  was  with  you,"  she  observed, 
a  little  quickly ;  and  I  explained  how  we  had  met  in  the 
Feltham  Road,  and  then  I  gave  her  his  message. 

"  But  we  are  always  out  driving  in  the  afternoon, 
Githa." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  we  are  generally  in  by  five." 

"  I  suppose  you  told  him  that?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so  " ;  and  my  mother  said  no  more, 
but  her  manner  gave  me  the  impression  that  his  visit 
would  not  be  welcome  to  her. 

This  idea  was  confirmed,  when  the  following  after- 
noon the  carriage  was  ordered  half  an  hour  later,  and 
it  was  nearly  six  before  we  returned.  Of  course,  Mr. 
Carlyon  had  called ;  and  two  afternoons  later  he  came 
again,  with  the  same  result. 

I  was  quite  sure  that  my  mother  had  no  wish  to  dis- 
appoint me.  Probably  she  did  not  for  one  moment  guess 
how   great   the   disappointment   was.      She   was   simply 

a£3 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

anxious  to  avoid  an  embarrassing  situation.  Her  con- 
fidential talk  with  Mr.  Carlyon  made  her  averse  to  seeing 
him  again  in  my  presence.  She  seemed  to  regret  his 
second  fruitless  visit,  and  announced  her  intention  of 
sending  him  a  note  of  apology.  As  it  was  my  last  day  at 
Bayfield,  it  was  rather  tantalising  to  hear  that  she  intended 
to  remain  at  home  the  following  day,  and  had  invited  him 
to  tea.  I  heard  afterwards  that  he  excused  himself ; 
possibly,  with  all  his  good  nature,  he  could  not  deny  him- 
self this  little  piece  of  revenge. 

With  the  exception  of  this  one  drawback,  the  re- 
mainder of  my  visit  passed  tranquilly  enough.  My 
mother  had  evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  have  no  more 
risky  arguments.  We  resumed  our  old  habits.  Every 
evening  she  read  aloud  to  me,  or  I  played  to  her ;  but  she 
never  again  asked  me  to  sing,  neither  did  I  volunteer  to 
do  so. 

I  regretted  leaving  Bayfield  without  bidding  Mr. 
Carlyon  good-bye ;  for,  except  in  church,  I  did  not  see 
him  again.  But  I  hoped  that  he  would  understand  that 
it  was  not  my  fault. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  go  to  the  Vicarage,  but 
I  saw  the  twins  constantly  in  the  churchyard.  It  seemed 
their  favourite  playground.  They  always  called  it  '*  the 
dead  garden  " ;  and  if  there  was  a  funeral,  Golliwog  was 
always  brought  to  witness  it.  I  have  seen  him  more  than 
once  perched  on  a  tombstone,  to  the  evident  consternation 
of  the  birds.  His  ridiculous  black  head  and  red  tie  were 
always  in  close  proximity  to  his  doating  master.  I  think 
I  loved  Stella  more  every  day ;  the  very  sound  of  her  dear 
little  voice  seemed  to  thrill  me.  "  There's  my  Girlie," 
she  would  say,  in  a  tone  of  rapture — "  my  sweet,  dear, 
darling  Girlie  " ;  and  Cyril  would  hum  the  refrain  in  his 
sing-song  fashion,  "  sweet,  dear,  darling  Girlie." 

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STELLA  DELIVERS  MY  MESSAGE 

On  the  last  morning  Stella  seemed  unusually  pleased 
to  see  me.  She  slipped  a  small  and  rather  grimy  hand 
into  mine.  "  There  is  such  a  big,  big,  great  hole  over 
there,"  she  observed,  with  very  round  eyes.  "  Peace 
won't  never  let  Cyril  and  me  go  near  such  places ;  she 
says  we  might  tumble  in." 

"  Well,  so  you  might,  dear,"  I  replied  anxiously,  for 
the  yawning  grave  in  the  distance  seemed  to  me  a  deadly 
peril.  But  I  need  not  have  been  alarmed ;  nothing  would 
have  induced  the  children  to  disobey  Peace.  With  all 
their  oddities  and  innocent  profanities  they  were  reliable 
little  creatures. 

"  Peace  will  let  us  look  into  the  hole  if  you  hold  our 
hands  tight,"  she  continued  coaxingly.  "  Perhaps  Cyril's 
too  busy  feeding  his  new  horse ;  he  wants  Golliwog  to 
have  a  ride  " ;  and  Cyril  assented  to  this.  "  Then  you  and 
me  will  come,  Girlie,"  she  continued  innocently ;  "  and 
you  won't  let  me  tumble  in,  will  you,  dear  ?  " — throwing 
back  her  brown  mane  in  the  most  fascinating  way. 

I  had  rather  a  repugnance  to  look  in  at  an  open  grave, 
but  I  could  not  shake  Stella's  determination ;  so  I  could 
only  hold  her  hand  so  tightly  that  she  winced  with  pain. 

"  You  are  pinching  me  dreadfully,  Girlie,"  she  said 
quite  crossly  at  last ;  and  then  I  relaxed  my  hold  a  little — 
not  much,  however,  for  she  was  hanging  over  the  brink 
in  a  way  that  made  me  giddy. 

"  What  can  make  you  care  to  look  down  into  a  horrid 
black  hole !  "  I  exclaimed  at  last,  puzzled  at  her  rapt 
expression. 

"  Oh,  I  am  only  looking  for  the  poor  dear  worms," 
she  returned  blissfully.  "Don't  you  like  worms.  Girlie? 
They  are  such  sweet  wriggling  things." 

"  Good  gracious !  no,  Stella.    T  hate  and  detest  them." 

"  Well,  Peace  always  says  they  are  nasty  things,"  she 
255. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

returned,  in  a  composed  voice :  "  but  Boy  says  nothing  is 
nasty  tiiat  God  made " :  and  Stella's  face  assumed  a 
heavenly  expression,  "  Of  course  the  poor  worms  can't 
help  being  ugly,  and  as  they  have  no  legs,  they  must 
wriggle,  you  know.  Cyril  and  me  used  to  try  and  help 
them.  We  carried  them  quite  a  long  way,  but  Peace  said 
she  could  not  bear  to  see  it — it  seemed  to  turn  her  inside. 
Of  course  " — with  seraphic  gentleness — "  we  wouldn't 
do  it  after  that.  We  did  not  want  Peace  to  turn  anything, 
so  we  don't  cuddle  them  no  more." 

I  was  glad  when  Stella  changed  the  subject. 

I  could  not  stay  long  with  the  children  that  morning. 
I  told  them  that  I  was  going  away  that  afternoon,  and 
they  both  kissed  me  hard  and  begged  me  to  stay ;  and  then 
it  suddenly  struck  me  that  I  might  send  a  message  to 
Mr.  Carlyon  by  Stella.  She  was  a  very  knowing  little 
person,  and  might  be  trusted  to  deliver  it.  I  therefore 
commenced  setting  about  my  task. 

"  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  your  father  before  I  go," 
I  began,  "  but  I  wanted  to  bid  him  good-bye."  Then 
Stella  took  hold  of  my  hand. 

"  Boy's  in  the  study — come  now,"  she  observed.  "  He 
won't  be  cross  with  you,  Girlie,  though  he  is  busy — 
dreadful  busy." 

"  No — no — I  would  not  interrupt  him  for  worlds  " — 
growing  quite  hot  at  the  idea.  "  Suppose  you  give  him 
a  nice  little  message."     Stella  nodded. 

"  Tell  him  I  am  leaving  this  afternoon,  and  am  sorry 
not  to  wish  him  good-bye." 

Stella  shut  her  eyes  and  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears. 
"  That's  quite  long  enough,"  she  remonstrated ;  and  to  my 
great  amusement  she  repeated  the  words  over  and  over 
again  to  fix  them  on  her  memory :  "  Tell  him  I  am  leav- 


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STELLA  DELIVERS  MY  MESSAGE 

ing  this  afternoon,  and  am  sorry  not  to  wish  him  good- 
bye— and  Girlie  sends  her  love." 

"  Stella,  you  know  I  never  told  you  to  say  that.  You 
may  give  my  kind  regards  if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  know  what  kind  regards  mean.  Do  you, 
Cyril?    Love  is  ever  so  much  nicer." 

Then  I  began  to  repent  my  misplaced  confidence. 
After  all,  Stella  was  only  a  baby — a  perverse  baby, 
too,  to  look  at  her  mutinous  little  mouth. 

"  Well,  then,  say  nothing  but  what  I  told  you  first — 
that  I  am  going  away,  and  am  sorry  not  to  bid  him  good- 
bye. That  is  quite  a  long  enough  message  for  your 
small  head."  But  Stella  suddenly  assumed  an  injured 
expression. 

"  Boy  won't  like  that  message  one  little  bit ;  he  likes 
lots  of  love."     But  I  would  not  listen, 

"  Stella,  darling,  don't  be  tiresome.  You  must  say 
what  I  tell  you — and  nothing  else.  Now  I  must  go." 
And  as  soon  as  I  could  disengage  myself  from  their 
clinging  arms,  I  hurried  back  to  Prior's  Cot.  I  com- 
forted myself  with  the  thought  that  Stella  had  only  been 
teazing  me,  and  that  she  was  really  to  be  trusted ;  but  I 
should  not  have  been  quite  so  easy  in  my  mind  if  I  had 
guessed  the  free  translation  of  that  message,  which  was 
repeated  to  me  long  afterwards : 

"  Girlie  is  going  away  this  afternoon,  and  is  so  sorry 
she  can't  bid  you  good-bye.  Boy.  She  looked  sorry — 
didn't  she,  Cyril? — just  as  though  she  were  going  to  cry." 

"  But  she  didn't  cry,  Paul." 

"  No,  of  course  not — big,  grown-up  young  ladies 
don't  behave  in  that  ridiculous  fashion.  I  expect  Miss 
Darnell  was  trying  not  to  laugh." 

"  Oh  no,  indeed,  Boy,  dear,  she  was  quite,  quite 
grave !  I  wanted  her  to  send  love — lots  of  love — but  she 
17  257 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

got  quite  red — didn't  she,  Cyril? — and  said  I  was  to  give 
something,  but  I  forget  what," 

"Kind  regards,  perhaps?" 

"  There !  to  think  of  you  guessing  it !  "  in  an  admiring 
tone.  "  Don't  you  love  Girlie,  Boy  ?  "  But  here  the 
narrator  checked  himself  in  rather  a  guilty  fashion. 

I  knew  that  my  mother  intended  to  drive  with  me  to 
the  station.  She  seemed  silent  and  rather  depressed  dur- 
ing luncheon,  and  I  could  not  help  saying  in  a  tone  of 
regret  that  I  was  sorry  to  leave  her  alone.  "  If  only 
Sydney  were  not  away,"  I  added ;  but  she  looked  at  me 
with  rather  an  inscrutable  smile. 

"  Sydney  is  a  dear  girl,  and,  as  you  know,  I  am  very 
fond  of  her,  but  I  think  I  am  rather  glad  than  otherwise 
that  she  is  absent  just  now;  and  then  " — in  rather  a  sad 
voice — "  it  is  sometimes  a  relief  not  to  make  efforts." 

My  mother's  speech  did  not  tend  to  raise  my  spirits. 
"  Will  it  always  be  like  this  ?  "  I  thought,  a  little  bitterly, 
as  I  went  upstairs  to  put  on  my  hat.  It  was  evident  to 
me  that  she  intended  to  say  no  word  about  the  probable 
date  of  my  next  visit ;  she  had  told  me  plainly  that  for 
the  future  I  was  to  decide  such  matters  for  myself.  I 
was  to  be  free  to  come  and  go  as  I  liked,  and  yet  it  seemed 
to  me  that  such  liberty  only  added  to  my  perplexity. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  but  we  were  only  just 
in  time  for  the  train,  and  our  good-bye  was  a  hurried 
one.  The  guard  almost  lifted  me  into  the  compartment, 
and  banged  the  door;  but  I  let  down  the  window  and 
leaned  out  for  a  parting  look.  My  mother  stood  a  little 
apart — the  afternoon  sunshine  seemed  to  illuminate  her 
pale  face.  How  beautiful  she  looked !  Her  tall,  graceful 
figure  in  the  grey  gown  looked  wonderfully  youthful,  but, 
oh,  the  unspeakable  sadness  in  her  eyes !  Though  she 
waved  her  hand  and  tried  to  smile,  I  felt  a  strange  sinking 

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STELLA  DELIVERS  MY  MESSAGE 

of  heart  as  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station.  I  was 
leaving  her  to  her  loneliness  and  sorrow — true,  it  was 
not  my  fault ;  but  none  the  less  I  suffered. 

When  I  reached  town  I  was  surprised  and  pleased  to 
see  father  awaiting  me  on  the  platform.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  done  so.  He  declared  the  fineness  of 
the  evening  had  tempted  him,  but  I  knew  better  than 
that;  and  as  I  took  my  seat  beside  him  in  the  phaeton  a 
pleasant  sense  of  comfort  and  enjoyment  stole  over  me. 

"  So  I  have  got  you  back,  Gipsy  ?  "  he  said,  looking 
at  me  affectionately  as  he  took  the  reins  from  the  groom. 

"Have  you  missed  me  very  much,  father?" 

"  Oh,  Darnell  always  misses  Co.,"  he  returned  lightly  ; 
and  then,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  I  hope  you  have  left 
your  mother  well."  He  said  it  so  naturally  that  I  almost 
started. 

"  Yes — No.  I  do  not  think  that  she  is  as  strong  as 
she  used  to  be.  She  tires  so  easily,  and  I  think — I  am 
sure — she  is  thinner." 

He  frowned,  but  made  no  answer,  and  I  thought  it 
better  to  change  the  subject. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  come  across  Sydney  ?  "  I 
asked  presently. 

"  Yes,  I  stumbled  upon  the  whole  party  at  the  Army 
and  Navy  Stores  yesterday — Colonel  Etheridge  and  his 
daughter,  and  another  lady,  whom  he  introduced  as  his 
sister.  What  a  charming  girl  Miss  Herbert  is !  She  was 
always  a  favourite  of  mine,  Gipsy.  By  the  bye,  as  we 
were  talking,  another  of  your  Bayfield  acquaintances 
joined  us — an  exceedingly  handsome  fellow.  Ah,  I  see 
you  recognise  the  description." 

Was  it  my  fancy,  or  did  father  look  at  me  a  little 
searchingly  ? 

"  Of  course  you  mean  Thurston  Wilde,  father  dear. 
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THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

We  are  so  afraid  that  he  and  Sydney  are  falHng  in  love 
with  each  other,  and  as  Lady  Wilde  and  Colonel  Ether- 
idge  want  to  make  up  a  match  between  him  and  Rhona 
there  will  be  a  regular  muddle." 

To  my  surprise  father  seemed  quite  indignant  at  this. 
"  Rhona — do  you  mean  that  little  fair  quiet  girl  ?  What 
an  absurd  idea!  One  might  as  well  fall  in  love  with  a 
little  white  mouse.  Fancy  contrasting  her  with  Miss 
Herbert !  I  hope  they  will  allow  the  poor  lad  to  choose 
his  wife  for  himself."  I  hinted  vaguely  at  Thurston's 
dependence  on  his  grandmother,  but  father  was  quite 
wrathful  at  the  idea.  "  Mediaeval  rubbish,"  he  remarked 
contemptuously.    "  We  don't  live  in  the  Dark  Ages,  Gip. 

A  fine  young  fellow  like  that "    And  then  I  saw  that 

father  had  taken  one  of  his  sudden  likings  for  my  old 
playfellow. 

"  By  the  bye,  Gipsy,  I  have  a  message  for  you  from 
Miss  Herbert.  They  want  you  to  go  over  to  luncheon 
to-morrow,  and  Colonel  Etheridge  has  civilly  included  me 
in  the  invitation." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  for  I  should  certainly  not  have  left 
you  the  first  day.  Are  you  sure  it  will  not  bore  you, 
father?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  my  dear.  They  seem  pleasant 
people,  and  I  find  Colonel  Etheridge  and  I  have  mutual 
friends."  And  then  it  was  settled  that  I  should  send 
Rhona  a  note  accepting  the  invitation  for  us  both. 

We  spent  a  very  pleasant  evening;  but  more  than 
once  I  saw  father  look  at  me  with  rather  a  dissatisfied 
expression,  and  later — just  as  I  was  about  to  wish  him 
good-night — he  detained  me. 

"  Gipsy,  I  don't  think  you  are  looking  quite  like  your 
old  self.  Did — did — your  mother  question  you  about 
your  health  ?  " 

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STELLA  DELIVERS  MY  MESSAGE 

"  She  thought  I  was  not  as  well  as  usual,"  I  returned 
reluctantly.  "  A  little  run  down — below  par,  as  Dr.  Tres- 
siter  says  " ;  for  our  dear  old  doctor  had  died  two  years 
before  this,  and  Dr.  Tressiter  had  taken  the  practice. 
He  had  attended  father  when  he  had  influenza,  and  we 
both  liked  him. 

"  I  was  sure  my  eyes  did  not  deceive  me,"  he  returned 
quite  anxiously.  Father  always  made  a  fuss  if  my  finger 
ached.  "  I  shall  have  Tressiter  round  to  look  at  you  " ; 
but  I  would  not  hear  of  this  for  a  moment. 

"  You  must  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  I  returned  rebel- 
liously.  "  I  am  quite  well — really  well,  father — only  so 
troubled." 

"  Troubled,  my  darling?"  And  then  as  he  drew  me 
closer  to  him  I  put  down  my  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
poured  out  to  him  a  little  of  the  pain  that  had  oppressed 
me.  He  listened  quietly  and  without  interrupting  me 
until  I  had  finished. 

"  Did  your  mother  know  all  this,  Gipsy?  " 

"  Yes,  we  had  a  long  talk  about  it.  She  was  very 
kind  and  loving,  and  I  think  she  understood.  Father 
dear  " — pressing  my  cheek  against  his,  as  the  child  Githa 
used  to  do  in  the  old  days — "  do  you  know  what  I  said 
to  her  ?  '  Father  and  I  both  love  you ;  we  both  want  you 
to  come  home.'  "    I  felt  him  start  almost  convulsively. 

"  What  did  she  say?  "  he  whispered ;  but  I  would  not 
tell  him  that,  and  he  did  not  repeat  his  question.  Proba- 
bly he  guessed  the  answer. 

He  held  me  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  I  could 
feel  the  strong  beating  of  his  heart.  Then  he  kissed  me 
very  hurriedly  and  rose.  "  Go  on  asking  her,"  he  said, 
in  a  curious  husky  voice,  "  and  tell  your  mother  that  what 
you  said  is  true  as  death.  There,  good-night,  my  little 
blessing  " ;  but  it  was  father  who  left  the  room  first. 

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A  CHEQUE  FROM  DARNELL  AND  CO. 


Be  yourself — simple,  honest,  and  unpretending — and  you  will 
enjoy  through  life  the  respect  and  love  of  friends. — Shennan. 

What  do  we  live  for,  if  it  is  not  to  make  life  less  difficult  to 
each  other? — George  Eliot. 

The  luncheon  party  at  Belmont  House  was  very  pleasant. 
Of  course  Thurston  was  there.  He  sat  by  me  and 
seemed  in  excellent  spirits.  He  was  staying  with  an 
elderly  cousin  in  Bayswater.  I  fancied,  from  a  hint  he 
dropped  in  the  course  of  the  conversation  about  Mr. 
Manifold's  pecuniary  difficulties,  that  he  was  a  paying 
guest ;  but  he  certainly  spent  most  of  his  time  at  the 
Etheridges'.  He  assured  me  that  he  was  having  a  good 
time  and  enjoying  himself  immensely,  and  that  "  Gran," 
as  he  called  her,  had  given  him  a  free  hand.  "  I  am  to 
stay  as  long  as  I  feel  disposed,"  he  observed  complacently. 
Sydney  and  Rhona  sat  opposite  to  us,  and  I  noticed  that 
both  girls  looked  rather  conscious  as  he  glanced  at  them ; 
and  Sydney  turned  hastily  to  father,  who  was  her  next 
neighbour,  and  said  something  to  him  in  a  low  voice ;  but 
I  saw  that  her  cheeks  were  quite  pink,  as  though  there 
were  some  occult  meaning  in  Thurston's  speech. 

We  saw  a  good  deal  of  Sydney  and  the  Etheridges 
during  the  next  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  and  Thurston 
was  generally  with  them.  We  rode  together  in  the  Park, 
and  made  appointments  to  meet  at  some  picture  gallery 

262 


A  CHEQUE  FROM  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

or  exhibition.  Once  I  accompanied  them  to  the  theatre, 
and  on  another  evening  father  took  a  box  at  the  Albert 
Hall  for  a  grand  concert,  and  we  included  Miss  Redford 
in  the  party.  The  music  was  beautiful,  and  I  should  have 
enjoyed  it  intensely  but  for  my  uneasiness  about  Thurston. 

He  would  persist  in  remaining  at  the  back  of  the 
box,  where  he  could  talk  to  Sydney ;  and  no  hints  on 
mine  or  Colonel  Etheridge's  part  could  induce  him  to 
change  his  place.  I  saw  poor  little  Rhona  glancing 
timidly  once  or  twice  in  his  direction;  as  the  evening 
went  on  she  grew  paler  and  paler,  and  there  was  such 
a  tired  look  in  her  blue  eyes.  I  was  not  surprised  to 
see  Colonel  Etheridge  frowning  and  pulling  his  mous- 
tache rather  fiercely.  I  do  not  know  what  would  have 
happened,  only  father,  who  is  very  quick  in  such  matters, 
suddenly  grasped  the  situation,  and  asked  me  to  change 
places  with  Miss  Herbert.  Sydney  rose  with  such  alacrity 
that  I  felt  sure  that  she  had  been  uncomfortable ;  but 
Thurston  looked  vexed  and  a  little  sulky — he  was  utterly 
reckless  that  evening.  But  Sydney  was  looking  so  sweet 
in  her  new  dress,  that  perhaps  he  had  some  excuse  for 
his  rash  behaviour. 

Sydney  had  prolonged  her  visit  for  another  week, 
and  the  evening  before  she  went  back  to  Bayfield  they 
were  all  to  dine  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  with  the  exception 
of  Mrs.  Etheridge,  who  never  went  out  in  the  evening. 
Of  course  Thurston  was  included,  and  father  wished  me 
to  invite  Aunt  Cosie,  and  Miss  Redford  and  her  Uance 
Mr.  Pelham.  It  was  my  first  large  dinner-party,  and 
father  took  a  great  deal  of  interest  in  the  arrangements. 
I  wore  my  prettiest  dress,  and  Mardie  seemed  to  admire 
the  result  excessively.  Father  only  said,  "  You  look  nicer 
than  usual,  Gipsy,"  and  turned  hastily  away.  I  wondered 
why  his  face  wore  such  a  pained  expression ;  but  he  told 

263 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

me  afterwards  that  the  thought  had  suddenly  crossed  his 
mind,  "  If  only  my  mother  could  have  seen  me !  " 

Aunt  Cosie  said  a  great  many  kind  things  to  me  that 
night.  "  You  are  a  very  young  hostess,  Githa,  my  dear," 
she  observed ;  "  but  you  did  extremely  well,  and  I  am 
quite  sure  that  Colonel  Etheridge  enjoyed  his  dinner, 
and  you  divided  your  attentions  very  prettily  between 
him  and  Mr.  Pelham." 

Aunt  Cosie  was  sleeping  at  our  house  that  night,  and 
as  father  was  in  the  room  he  overheard  her  little  speech, 
for  he  came  behind  us  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Gipsy  was  a  regular  darling !  Constance,  don't  you 
think  that  I  have  every  right  to  be  proud  of  my  little 
girl  " ;  but  father's  look  said  more  than  his  words. 

"  It  is  a  blessing  that  Githa  has  turned  out  as  well 
as  she  has,"  returned  Aunt  Cosie  quite  seriously ;  *'  for 
the  way  you  and  Mrs.  Marland  have  spoiled  her,  Philip, 
is  enough  to  turn  the  child's  brain."  But  father  only 
laughed,  and  assured  her  that  I  was  unspoilable. 

I  was  glad  that  they  were  both  so  satisfied  with  me, 
for  I  wanted  so  much  to  please  father.  I  knew  that  he 
intended  to  entertain  his  friends  more  frequently,  and  that 
I  should  have  far  more  onerous  duties  to  discharge  in  the 
future,  and  I  wished  to  accustom  myself  to  then? ;  but  how 
little  he  and  Aunt  Cosie  guessed  the  strange  sinking  of 
heart  under  my  outward  cheerfulness.  I  was  in  my 
mother's  place — how  was  I  to  forget  that? 

I  was  relieved  to  see  that  Thurston  behaved  more 
discreetly  this  evening.  I  had  arranged  that  he  should 
take  Rhona  in  to  dinner;  and,  as  Miss  Redford  was  on 
the  other  side,  he  had  no  opportunity  to  transgress,  espe- 
cially as  Sydney  was  somewhat  screened  from  his  view. 
Rhona  had  her  innings  that  evening,  and  the  poor  little 


264 


A  CHEQUE  FROM  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

thing  certainly  looked  happier ;  but  when  I  said  so  to 
father  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

I  never  could  get  father  to  be  properly  interested  in 
Rhona.  He  always  spoke  rather  disparagingly  of  her; 
he  used  to  call  her  "  little  Miss  Prim,"  or  "  Prunes  and 
Prism."    I  took  him  to  task  at  last. 

"  I  can't  imagine  why  you  are  so  prejudiced  against 
poor  Rhona,"  I  said  in  quite  a  hurt  tone.  "  It  is  not 
like  you,  dear;  for  you  are  always  so  kind  and  attentive 
to  even  unattractive  people,  and  really  Rhona  is  not  the 
least  plain.  I  am  sure  that  she  looked  quite  pretty  the 
other  night  " ;  and  then  I  proceeded  in  my  enthusiastic 
way  to  tabulate  her  virtues.  But  father  was  bent  on  pro- 
voking me,  and  sometimes  when  he  chose  he  could  be 
extremely  obstinate. 

"  What !  all  those  good  qualities !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  No  wonder  the  poor  little  girl  sufifers  from  moral  indi- 
gestion. I  suppose  that  gives  her  that  flabby,  colourless 
look."  But  of  course  he  was  only  teasing  me ;  he  simply 
considered  her  an  uninteresting  young  person,  and  noth- 
ing made  him  more  indignant  than  to  hint  at  Colonel 
Etheridge's  desire  to  annex  Thurston  Wilde  as  a  son-in- 
law.  He  said  quite  seriously  that  such  a  marriage  would 
be  utterly  disastrous  to  both  of  them.  "  Granted  that  your 
little  friend  fancies  herself  in  love  with  him,  would  it  not 
be  better  for  one  to  suffer  than  for  both  to  be  miserable  ?  " 
Father  evidently  meant  what  he  said ;  he  felt  strongly  on 
the  matter. 

"  Any  one  can  see  that  he  cares  for  Miss  Herbert," 
he  went  on,  "  and  as  far  as  I  can  judge  I  should  say  his 
affection  is  reciprocated,"  and  he  looked  rather  sharply 
at  me  as  though  challenging  me  to  deny  the  fact ;  but  I 
could  not  perjure  myself.  I  saw  more  plainly  every  day, 
however  Sydney  might  be  trying  to  blind  herself  and 

26s 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Thurston,   that   her   heart  was   no   longer   in   her   own 
keeping. 

"  Of  course  I  see  you  agree  with  me,"  went  on  father 
triumphantly,  "  and  I  don't  understand  why  you  are  not 
on  their  side,  for  I  never  saw  a  better  matched  pair.  He 
is  a  thoroughly  nice  fellow,  and  Miss  Herbert  is  one  of 
the  most  charming  girls  I  ever  met,  and  small  blame  to 
Wilde  if  he  thinks  her  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world." 

I  was  so  fond  of  Sydney  that  I  could  not  help  giving 
father  a  grateful  hug  for  speaking  so  nicely  of  her, 

"  I  don't  deny  that  they  seem  made  for  each  other," 
I  returned:  "but  you  forget,  dear,  that  Sydney  is  quite 
poor,  and  that  Thurston  is  dependent  on  his  grand- 
mother." But  father  only  said,  "  Pshaw,  what  does  that 
matter;  if  the  old  lady  cuts  up  rough,  which  I  don't 
believe  for  a  moment,  he  has  a  head  and  two  hands,  and 
they  are  both  young  enough  to  wait."  And  though  I 
tried  to  explain  to  him  that  Thurston  had  not  been 
brought  up  wisely  and  was  not  fitted  for  any  profession, 
father  persisted  in  his  opinion. 

"  He  could  find  some  work  to  suit  him,"  he  remarked 
quite  severely.  "  Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention,  as 
you  know — it  will  make  a  man  of  him.  Anything  would 
be  better  than  selling  himself  for  money.  Mercenary 
marriages  are  certainly  not  made  in  heaven,  Gipsy;  the 
devil  has  far  too  much  to  do  with  them  " ;  and  as  in  my 
secret  heart  I  agreed  with  everything  he  said,  I  allowed 
him  to  have  the  final  word. 

We  began  talking  about  Miss  Redford  after  this ;  and 
Aunt  Cosie,  who  had  just  entered  the  room,  joined  in 
the  conversation. 

"  Claudia  always  looks  well  in  evening  dress,"  she 
observed,  "  her  neck  and  shoulders  are  finely  moulded  and 
she  holds  herself  well ;  but  both  Githa  and  I  were  sorry 

266 


A  CHEQUE  FROM  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

to  see  how  thin  and  worn  she  had  grown  lately.  Really 
no  one  would  think  that  she  is  only  two  years  older  than 
Helen !  " 

"  Mrs.  Seymour  has  certainly  grown  younger  since 
her  marriage,"  observed  my  father. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  returned  Aunt  Cosie  happily  ;  "  really, 
that  marriage,  improvident  as  we  thought  it  at  the  time, 
has  turned  out  remarkably  well.  I  had  quite  a  nice  talk 
with  Claudia  last  night,  Hamlyn  Seymour's  prospects 
seem  to  warrant  them  in  taking  a  comfortable  house. 
They  have  seen  one  likely  to  suit  them  quite  close  to 
Cicely,"  she  said.  "  Helen  was  in  such  spirits  about  it ; 
and  really  with  two  babies  that  doll-house  of  a  flat  is  too 
absurd." 

We  both  assented  to  this,  though  I  took  care  to  add 
that  Helen  was  so  good  a  manager  that  she  always  con- 
trived to  keep  her  doll-house  as  neat  and  cosy  as  possible ; 
"  if  only  Mr.  Pelham  had  a  chance  of  getting  on  as  well," 
I  concluded.  I  fancied  father  smiled  in  rather  a  knowing 
way  when  I  said  this  ;  but  as  he  made  no  remark  I  thought 
I  must  be  mistaken.  In  fact,  he  changed  the  subject  as 
though  it  bored  him. 

Aunt  Cosie  spent  nearly  a  week  with  us.  Father  and 
I  loved  having  her ;  she  was  such  a  dear  peaceful  soul. 
I  never  knew  any  one  so  kind  and  tactful,  and  as  Sydney 
had  gone  back  to  Bayfield  I  was  very  glad  of  her  com- 
panionship. I  wanted  her  advice  too,  for  I  was  taking 
up  the  reins  of  domestic  government  just  then,  and  Aunt 
Cosie  was  just  the  right  person  to  help  me.  She  had  been 
a  notable  housewife  in  her  day,  and  had  all  kinds  of  little 
methods.  She  was  kind  enough  to  tell  me  that  I  was  an 
apt  scholar. 

"  Keep  a  firm  hand  on  the  reins,  Githa,"  she  said 
once ;  "  never  mind  your  age,  you  must  maintain  your 

267 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

position  as  mistress  of  your  father's  house.  There  is  one 
disadvantage  in  having  reliable  old  servants,  that  they  are 
apt  to  get  their  own  way — even  make  their  own  rules." 

"  You  see  they  have  known  me  from  a  child,  Aunt 
Cosie." 

"  Just  so,  and  it  is  difficult  for  them  to  recognise  that 
you  are  a  child  no  longer;  for  example,  ]\'Irs.  Kennedy 
had  no  right  to  make  that  alteration  in  the  menu  without 
consulting  you." 

"  So  I  told  her.  I  did  not  take  it  quietly,  I  assure 
you,  Aunt  Cosie,  for  I  had  been  much  vexed  at  the  time, 
and  Kenny  had  apologised  most  humbly." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear ;  you  must  put  your 
foot  down  once  for  all,  it  will  save  you  trouble  in  the 
future."  And  I  was  careful  to  follow  this  advice,  for 
Hallett,  faithful  and  devoted  as  he  was,  was  not  wholly 
immaculate,  and  if  he  differed  from  me  about  some  table 
arrangement,  was  given  to  maintain  his  opinion  with  a 
tenacity  which  borders  on  obstinacy.  On  these  occasions 
I  never  argued  the  point,  but  quietly  referred  the  matter 
to  father. 

The  day  after  the  dinner-party  Thurston  paid  a  formal 
call ;  but  he  did  not  stay  long,  he  had  to  meet  Colonel 
Etheridge  and  Rhona  in  town.  I  asked  him  hew  much 
longer  he  intended  to  remain.  I  thought  the  question 
rather  embarrassed  him.  He  hesitated,  looked  down,  and 
then  replied  briefly  that  he  had  not  made  up  his  n?ind,  but 
that  he  would  probably  return  to  Bayfield  in  a  day  or  two. 
He  must  have  made  up  his  mind  very  quickly  after  this, 
for  we  heard  he  went  back  the  very  next  day;  Rhona 
told  us  so  when  she  called.  I  thought  she  did  not  look 
quite  happy,  though  she  added  that  they  were  probably 
returning  themselves  the  following  week. 

Rhona  had  an  engagement  and  would  not  stay  for 
268 


A  CHEQUE  FROM  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

tea;  but  directly  she  left  we  had  another  visitor,  Miss 
Redford. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  and  Mrs.  Bevan  alone," 
she  said  quickly  as  she  greeted  us ;  and  then  it  struck 
me  that  her  manner  was  less  collected  than  usual,  and 
that  her  eyes  were  unusually  bright. 

"  You  look  well,  Claudia,"  observed  Aunt  Cosie,  "  and 
you  have  quite  a  colour." 

"  Yes,  I  walked  fast,  and  it  is  rather  warm.  Helen 
and  I  have  been  to  see  the  house,  and  Hamlyn  met  us 
there.  They  have  quite  decided  to  take  it.  We  all  lunched 
with  Cicely,  so  we  were  quite  a  family  party." 

"  That  must  have  been  delightful. 

"  I  am  so  glad  dear  Helen  will  have  such  a  charming 
home,"  went  on  Aunt  Cosie  in  her  comfortable  way. 
"  You  will  have  your  work  cut  out,  Claudia,  for  she  will 
need  your  help." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  other  work  to  do,"  returned  Miss 
Redford,  with  a  heightened  colour.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Bevan, 
you  have  always  been  such  a  good  friend  to  us  that  I 
am  very  pleased  to  have  the  opportunity  of  telling  my 
good  news  to  you  and  Githa  together.  Elmer  has  had 
a  good  post  offered  to  him — it  is  likely  to  be  lucrative — 
and  " — here  her  lips  quivered  with  emotion — "  we  are 
to  be  married  at  the  end  of  June." 

I  think  Reddy  must  have  been  satisfied  with  the  way 
we  received  her  news — I  never  saw  Aunt  Cosie  so  pleased 
about  anything.  To  my  amazement  she  told  us  that  it  was 
my  father's  interest  and  exertion  that  had  brought  them 
this  piece  of  good  luck. 

"  I  am  more  grateful  to  Mr.  Darnell  that  I  can 
express,"  she  went  on,  and  there  were  actually  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "  I  know  how  much  he  has  always  thought 
of  Elmer,  and  when  he  heard  of  this  vacancy  he  lost  no 

269 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

time  in  recommending  him.  You  have  no  idea  of  the 
trouble  he  has  taken  about  it,  Githa." 

"  You  will  be  able  to  have  a  nice  house  too,  Claudia," 
observed  Aunt  Cosie  in  a  delightfully  sympathetic  tone. 

"  We  have  no  time  to  think  about  that  now,"  returned 
Miss  Redford,  with  quite  a  youthful  blush.  "  Elmer 
thinks  we  had  better  take  some  comfortable  rooms  for 
the  present,  and  look  for  a  house  at  our  leisure.  Cicely 
insists  on  the  wedding  being  from  her  house,  and  both 
she  and  Dr.  Burford  have  advised  me  to  leave  the  Nut- 
shell and  stay  with  them." 

"  And  a  very  good  idea  too,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Cosie. 
"  Cicely  will  help  you  with  your  shopping,  and  it  will 
be  far  more  comfortable  for  you  and  Mr.  Pelham  " ;  and 
Reddy  assented  to  this. 

"  We  have  stipulated  for  a  quiet  wedding,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  Elmer  has  very  strong  opinions  on  this  point, 
and  I  agree  with  him — that  when  middle-aged  people 
marry,  the  less  fuss  they  make  about  it  the  better.  I 
intend  to  have  no  bridesmaids,  not  even  the  children ; 
but  I  hope  you  will  be  with  me,  Githa,  and  if  Mrs.  Bevan 
and  Mr.  Darnell  will  honour  us —  "  but  at  that  moment 
father  came  in  to  answer  for  himself.  No  one  could 
accuse  Miss  Redford  of  want  of  feeling  or  coldness  of 
manner  at  that  moment;  she  turned  quite  pale  when 
father  took  her  hand  and  congratulated  her  in  his  kind 
way — she  really  seemed  hardly  able  to  speak.  "  It  is  all 
owing  to  you — to  your  goodness,"  she  said  in  a  low 

voice;  "  if  you  had  not  spoken  for  Elmer "  but  father 

would  not  let  her  go  on. 

"  Tut,  nonsense.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  would  allow 
a  clever  fellow  like  Pelham  to  be  shunted  in  that  fashion. 
'  I  have  got  a  square  man  for  a  square  hole,'  I  said  to 
them,  '  who  will  do  you  credit,  and  his  name  is  Elmer 

270 


A  CHEQUE  FROM  DARNELL  AND  CO. 

Pelham,'  and  that  about  settled  the  business.  You  must 
bring  him  to  dinner,  and  then  we  will  have  a  talk.  Come, 
little  housekeeper,  name  some  evening  before  our  Cousin 
Constance  leaves  us " ;  but  to  our  regret  Aunt  Cosie 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  stay.  Claudia  could  come  and 
lunch  with  her  any  day,  she  said,  and  a  quartette  was 
always  better  than  an  uneven  number. 

As  soon  as  we  had  settled  on  the  evening.  Miss  Red- 
ford  took  her  leave.  She  had  done  a  hard  day's  work,  and 
certainly  looked  a  little  tired. 

That  evening  Aunt  Cosie  and  I  found  plenty  of  occu- 
pation in  discussing  wedding  presents.  She  told  me  that 
she  thought  of  giving  Claudia  the  same  gift  that  she  had 
selected  for  Helen — a  nice  little  stock  of  house  linen. 
Aunt  Cosie  was  always  very  generous. 

I  did  not  know  father  was  listening  to  us,  but  he  sud- 
denly flung  down  his  paper. 

"  Gipsy,"  he  said  seriously,  "  I  consider  that  we  owe 
a  good  deal  to  Miss  Redford,  and  I  should  like  to  do 
something  handsome  for  her.  Shall  we  furnish  her  house, 
Gip — you  and  I  together  ?  I  can  well  afford  it ;  and  I 
don't  believe  they  have  a  hundred  pounds  between  them." 

"Oh,  father,  will  you  really?    What  a  lovely  idea!" 

"  I  said  we,  not  I,"  he  returned  quickly ;  "  we  go 
shares,  Gip.  I  will  tell  you  how  we  will  do  it.  I  will 
write  a  cheque  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  take  it  to  her ; 
it  is  from  Darnell  and  Co.  You  must  tell  her  that — a 
wedding  present  from  Darnell  and  Co." 


371 


XXVIII 

A  TWILIGHT  HOUR 


All,  all  shall  count;  the  mingled  joy  and  sorrow 
To  force  of  finer  being  rise  at  last; 
From  the  crude  ores  in  trial's  furnace  smelted, 
The  image  of  the  perfect  life  is  cast. 

Frederick  L.  Hosmer. 

He  may  see  what  he  maketh.  Our  dreams  are  the  sequel  of 
our  waking  knowledge. — Emerson. 

I  NEVER  shall  forget  the  expression  on  Reddy's  face  when 
she  read  the  little  slip  of  paper  in  father's  handwriting 
with  the  good  wishes  of  Darnell  and  Co.  inscribed  on  it, 
and  then  opened  the  cheque.  Her  incredulous  joy  made 
her  incapable  of  speech.  I  forbear  to  state  the  amount — 
that  was  a  secret  of  mine  and  father's, — but  I  shall  not 
be  wrong  in  saying  that  it  was  certainly  a  princely  gift. 
But  I  knew  how  grateful  he  was  to  our  dear  Miss  Red- 
ford  for  her  devoted  services  on  my  behalf  all  these  years. 

Reddy  was  not  an  emotional  person,  and  her  feelings 
were  always  well  under  her  control.  Nevertheless,  some- 
thing very  like  a  sob  reached  my  ears.  She  said,  huskily, 
that  she  had  a  catch  in  her  throat,  and  would  take  a  sip 
of  cold  water.  I  had  sufficient  tact  not  to  offer  to  fetch  it, 
and  she  withdrew  for  a  few  minutes.  When  she  returned 
her  throat  was  quite  clear,  and  she  looked  radiant. 

"  I  shall  write  to  your  father,  my  dear  Githa,"  she 
said,  when  she  had  thanked  me  to  the  best  of  her  ability ; 
and  she  kept  her  word.     It  was  certainly  a  beautiful 

272 


A  TWILIGHT  HOUR 

letter,  and  when  father  handed  it  to  me  to  read  he  said 
I  had  better  put  it  away  in  a  safe  place,  for  it  was  too 
good  to  be  destroyed. 

When  Miss  Redford  had  regained  calmness,  she 
explained  to  me  that  the  money  would  be  a  perfect  god- 
send to  her  and  Mr.  Pelham. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  this  magnificent  gift,"  she 
went  on,  touching  the  cheque  almost  caressingly,  "  we 
should  have  had  to  spend  the  first  year  or  two  of  our 
married  life  in  rooms,  until  we  had  saved  up  a  sufficient 
sum  for  furniture,  but  now  there  will  be  no  occasion  for 
waiting."  I  felt  very  glad  to  know  this ;  and  she  went 
on  in  her  bright,  crisp  way :  "  Now  I  shall  be  able  to  get 
some  nice  things  for  myself,  for  dear  Mrs.  Bevan  has 
promised  to  provide  house  linen,  and  Cicely  and  Dr. 
Burford  will  give  us  spoons  and  forks.  Helen  has  set 
her  heart  on  a  grandfather's  clock." 

"  And  your  sister  Agneta?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  Aggie  and  Ernest  are  not  very  well 
off  at  present,  though  he  will  be  all  right  when  his  Uncle 
Luxmore  dies — he  is  his  heir ;  but  I  daresay  they  will 
send  me  some  oriental  stuffs  for  decoration.  I  feel  a 
perfect  Croesus,  Githa,  I  assure  you." 

We  had  quite  a  long  talk  after  that.  I  remember 
wondering  a  little  as  I  listened  whether  it  were  better  to 
marry  young,  when  all  one's  feelings  were  fresh  and  life 
seemed  to  stretch  out  invitingly  before  one,  or  whether 
it  were  safer  to  wait  for  the  tried  experience  of  maturer 
years.  Miss  Redford  must  have  been  five  or  six  and 
thirty  at  least,  and  she  and  Mr.  Pelham  had  cared  for 
each  other  for  the  last  nine  or  ten  years,  though  they  had 
not  been  definitely  engaged.  The  long  waiting  for  their 
good  things  had  certainly  tried  them.  Mr.  Pelham  had 
got  into  bachelor  ways,  and  looked  older  than  his  actual 
i8  273 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

age.  Nevertheless,  when  they  dined  with  us  the  following 
evening  no  two  people  could  have  looked  happier.  Reddy 
was  quite  handsome  that  night,  and  I  am  sure  Mr.  Pelham 
thought  so. 

I  think  it  was  a  good  thing  for  us  that  we  had  this 
new  source  of  interest  to  occupy  us.  I  saw  Miss  Redford 
nearly  every  day,  and  at  meal-time  I  had  always  plenty 
to  tell  father.  My  letters  to  my  mother  were  full  of 
feminine  details,  which  I  knew  would  interest  her  and 
Sydney,  for  mother  always  felt  a  great  respect  for  Miss 
Redford ;  indeed,  she  announced  her  intention  of  sending 
her  a  wedding  present.  She  asked  my  opinion,  and  we 
finally  decided  on  a  silver  tea-pot  and  cream- jug. 

I  was  thankful  to  have  this  fresh  distraction  for  my 
thoughts,  for  I  was  not  quite  happy  about  father.  He 
did  not  seem  in  his  usual  spirits,  and  though  he  denied 
that  anything  was  wrong,  something  was  evidently 
depressing  him.  We  had  both  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
watching  each  other,  and  as  the  days  went  on  I  felt  more 
and  more  convinced  that  I  was  the  secret  cause  of  his 
uneasiness.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  verify  this  vague 
impression,  as  he  never  said  a  word  that  offered  me  a  clue, 
until  one  Sunday  evening,  when,  as  we  were  sitting  out 
on  the  balcony,  he  asked  me  suddenly  if  I  had  made  my 
summer  plans. 

I  was  rather  taken  aback  by  this  question,  for  it 
seemed  such  a  strange  transmission  of  thought.  I  had 
been  worrying  myself  all  the  afternoon,  thinking  that 
June  had  come,  and  that  I  should  have  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  August.  I  hesitated  so  long  with  my  answer 
that  he  looked  at  me  a  little  suspiciously. 

"  I  was  only  wondering  if  you  would  like  to  go  abroad 
with  me  in  September,"  he  continued. 

"  I  thought  Colonel  Lindsay  had  taken  the  shooting 
274 


A  TWILIGHT  HOUR 

lodge  again  at  Braemar,  and  expected  you  to  join  him," 
I  answered. 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  not  definitely  accept  his  invitation ; 
besides,  that  is  for  August,  and  if  you  go  down  to  Bay- 
field, I  might  possibly  get  him  to  put  me  up  for  a  fort- 
night or  three  weeks." 

"  I  think  mother  will  expect  me  as  usual,"  I  returned. 
"  She  has  not  said  a  word  in  her  letters  about  places. 
She  may  be  intending  to  go  to  the  seaside  with  Sydney, 
or  to  Wales,  or  the  Westmorland  Lakes,  but  I  know  she 
would  like  me  to  accompany  her — that  is,  if  you  do  not 
mind,  father;  and  I  might  go  abroad  with  you  later." 
But  I  sighed  in  rather  an  oppressed  way  as  I  concluded. 
Father  echoed  the  sigh. 

"  It  is  no  use  my  minding,"  he  said  rather  shortly. 
"  You  must  do  your  duty  by  your  mother,  and  as  I  have 
the  lion's  share  of  your  society  I  ought  not  to  grumble. 
Well,  I  will  close  with  Lindsay's  offer.  I  suppose  you 
will  be  away  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  I  returned  dejectedly.  "  Oh,  father, 
I  think  I  hate  leaving  you  more  every  year." 

He  stroked  my  hair  without  speaking.  I  knew  from 
his  manner  that  he  hated  it  too.  "  Poor  little  Gip,"  he 
murmured  caressingly. 

"  It  does  seem  all  so  unnecessary  and  wrong,"  I  con- 
tinued earnestly.  "  Father  dear,  will  you  mind  very  much 
if  I  ask  you  a  question?  You  need  not  answer  it  if  you 
do  not  wish  to  do  so.  Have — have  you  ever  asked  mother 
to  come  home  ?  "    But  he  never  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  have  asked  her  many  times,  darling."  And  this 
gave  me  courage  for  another  question. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  want  to  know,  dear,"  I  went  on. 
"  Have  you — I  mean,  do  you  and  mother  ever  meet  ?  " 

"  We  have  not  met  for  years,"  he  returned  very 
27s 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

gravely,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  the  question  pained  him. 
"  Our  last  meeting  was  not  a  pleasant  memory ;  it  gave 
me  no  encouragement  to  repeat  my  visit."  His  tone  was 
so  hurt  and  proud  that  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  it.  It 
was  then  that  I  noticed  that  his  face  was  getting  a  little 
worn  and  tired.  "  It  is  hopeless,  Githa,  quite  hopeless," 
he  went  on  in  the  same  dull,  weary  voice ;  "  but,"  rousing 
himself  with  such  a  sad  smile,  "  at  least  I  have  you,  my 
darling." 

"  Yes,  we  have  each  other."  Then  I  took  his  dear 
head  between  my  hands  and  kissed  it  passionately,  and 
as  I  did  so  I  noticed  how  grey  it  was  getting.  "  Nothing 
is  really  hopeless  in  God's  world,  dearest ;  Mardie  has 
often  said  that  " ;  and  then  all  at  once  it  came  into  my 
head  that  I  must  tell  him  my  beautiful  dream  about  the 
Angel  for  Forgiveness.  I  had  been  so  afraid  of  for- 
getting it  that  I  had  written  it  down.  He  seemed  to 
listen  with  intense  interest,  and  though  he  only  remarked 
that  it  was  a  wonderful  dream,  I  could  see  he  was  much 
moved,  and  by  and  by  he  told  me  it  had  done  him  good. 
"  I  have  been  in  a  hard,  desponding  mood  lately,"  he 
continued.  "  I  could  have  said  with  Cain,  '  My  punish- 
ment is  greater  than  I  can  bear '  " ;  and  then  he  said  a 
strange  thing — at  least  it  seemed  so  to  me  until  I  under- 
stood what  he  meant, — "  Even  my  love  for  you  adds  to 
my  punishment." 

Now  it  has  struck  me  more  than  once,  that  when  two 
people  love  each  other  very  dearly,  and  spend  a  good 
many  years  together,  they  grow  so  close  that  they  can 
often  read  each  other's  thoughts  without  the  medium  of 
words ;  the  spiritual  insight  seems  to  deepen  and  enlarge 
its  boundaries  ;  and  so  a  very  little  reflection  made  me  com- 
prehend father's  meaning,  and  though  I  was  glad  when 
he  explained  himself  more  fully,  I  hardly  needed  such 

276 


A  TWILIGHT  HOUR 

interpretation  by  word  of  mouth.  It  was  a  warm  June 
evening,  and  we  were  sitting  out  on  the  balcony  later  than 
usual.  The  rosy  flushes  of  sunset  had  long  faded  away, 
and  the  sweet  subtle  twilight  of  a  summer  night  was 
stealing  over  everything.  The  river,  which  had  been 
scarcely  greyer  than  a  dove's  wing,  now  looked  dark  and 
steely;  in  a  little  while  the  moon  would  rise.  The  lamps 
had  been  left  unlighted  in  the  drawing-room,  and  only  the 
lights  from  the  embankment  enabled  us  to  see  the  outline 
of  each  other's  faces.  I  think  this  gave  father  courage 
to  speak. 

"  You  do  not  misunderstand  me,  Gipsy  ?  " 
"  No  dear ;  there  is  never  any  fear  of  my  doing  that." 
"  Still   my   last   speech   must   have   sounded   a   little 
strange;  and  yet  how  am  I  to  make  my  meaning  clear?  " 
He  got  up  from  his  seat  and  paced  slowly  up  and  down, 
as  though  movement  were  a  relief;  and  then  he  leant 
upon  the  railing  and  spoke  without  turning  his  face  to  me. 
"You  know  I  still  love  your  mother,  Githa?" 
Then  I  went  quickly  to  his  side  and  held  his  arm. 
"  Dear  father,  I  know  it,  you  need  not  tell  me ;  and," 
in  a  low  voice,  "  mother  knows  it  too.    Do  you  not  remem- 
ber that  I  told  her  that  we  both  wanted  her?  " 
Then  he  shivered  slightly. 

"  I  am  not  alluding  to  that.  I  only  wished  you  to 
know  that  such  thoughts  are  never  out  of  my  mind. 
Sometimes  I  should  be  glad  to  forget;  but  you  are  so 
like  her  in  little  ways  that  this  is  impossible." 
"  But  I  do  not  really  resemble  her,  father?  " 
"  Not  as  she  is  at  present,  but  when  she  was  young 
and  happy.  You  have  the  quick  turn  of  the  head ;  and 
sometimes  when  you  arc  pleased  and  excited  about  any- 
thing you  speak  with  her  voice." 

"Oh,  father,  do  you  really  mean  it?"  and  I  hardly 
277 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

knew  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  until  he  assured  me 
that  the  resemblance  gave  him  pleasure  as  well  as  pain. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  "  I  feel  as  though  I  have 
defrauded  your  mother  of  her  life  happiness,  and  amongst 
other  things  that  I  am  robbing  her  of  her  child's  affec- 
tions. You  do  not  love  your  mother  as  you  do  me. 
Githa  ?  "  But  my  only  answer  was  to  clasp  his  arm  more 
tightly. 

"  Of  course  it  is  natural  under  the  circumstances,"  he 
went  on.  "  If  you  had  known  her  to  be  your  mother,  all 
these  years,  the  affection  would  have  grown  and  devel- 
oped ;  but  even  now  it  is  not  too  late." 

"  Oh  no,  indeed.  I  hope  not,  father.  But  I  do  not 
understand  her  as  I  do  you."    And  then  he  sighed  again. 

"  If  she  only  knew  how  I  long  sometimes  for  her  to 
see  you.  That  evening,  Gipsy,  when  you  came  to  show 
me  your  dress,  you  looked  such  a  darling;  but  I  could 
not  tell  you  so,  because  I  was  thinking  of  her  and  what 
she  was  missing." 

"  I  understand,  dear.  Do  not  pain  yourself  by  telling 
me  all  this,  though,  all  the  same,  I  love  to  hear  it." 

"  It  is  a  relief  to-night.  You  have  been  a  comfort 
to  me,  little  girl,  since  the  hour  you  were  born."  Then 
so  low  that  I  only  just  caught  the  words,  "  Oh,  Yvonne, 
Yvonne,  if  you  only  knew  how  to  forgive !  " 

But  after  this  he  told  me  that  it  was  getting  chilly, 
and  that  we  must  both  go  in. 

I  cried  myself  to  sleep  that  night,  and  yet  I  was 
thankful  that  we  had  had  that  talk.  I  felt  that  I  had 
got  nearer  to  father,  that  I  had  had  wonderful  glimpses 
into  a  loving  and  generous  soul.  He  had  passed  through 
the  furnace  of  pain,  and  it  had  refined  and  purified  his 
nature.  Whatever  had  been  his  sins  or  infirmities  in  the 
past,  I  felt  instinctively  that  he  was  good  now,  sound  and 

37,8 


A  TWILIGHT  HOUR 

true  to  the  very  core  of  his  being.  My  faith  in  him  was 
so  strong  that  I  could  stake  my  Hfe  on  it.  "Aunt  Cosie 
believes  in  him,  too,"  I  would  say  to  myself  triumphantly. 

I  am  afraid  that  the  very  intensity  of  my  sympathy 
with  father  helped  to  heighten  the  barrier  that  seemed 
slowly  rising  between  myself  and  my  mother — so  loving 
to  me,  so  hard  to  him,  so  merciless  to  herself !  What 
strange  flaw  of  nature  had  marred  the  perfection  of  her 
womanhood?  I  could  have  wrung  my  hands  with  impo- 
tent pain  and  longing,  but  that  night  brought  me  no 
vision  of  comfort. 

When  I  went  down  to  the  dining-room  the  next 
morning  I  was  rather  surprised  to  see  a  letter  in  my 
mother's  handwriting  lying  beside  my  plate.  I  had  had 
a  long  letter  from  her  only  two  days  before ;  but  this 
second  seemed  shorter. 

I  was  hastily  mastering  the  contents  when  father  came 
in  and  wished  me  good-morning.  I  saw  him  glance  at 
the  envelope,  then  at  my  face.  I  suppose  I  had  rather 
a  worried  expression. 

"What  is  wrong,  Gipsy?"  he  asked  anxiously,  and 
I  put  the  letter  in  his  hand.  I  thought  it  would  be  better 
for  him  to  read  it  for  himself. 

My  mother  wrote  that  she  was  very  much  harassed 
and  perplexed.  Thurston  had  acted  very  foolishly :  he 
had  waylaid  Sydney  when  she  was  going  to  the  School- 
house  on  Thursday,  and  had  proposed  to  her.  Poor 
Sydney  had  been  dreadfully  distressed,  but  had  refused 
him.  She  told  him  that  he  was  behaving  very  badly  to 
Rhona ;  but  he  denied  that  he  had  ever  paid  her  the  least 
attention,  and  declared  that  nothing  would  induce  him 
to  marry  her. 

"  '  If  you  do  not  become  my  wife,  Sydney,  I  will 
never   have  one ' — those  were   his   words,   Githa.     She 

279 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

got  rid  of  him  at  last,  and  came  to  me  at  once  and  told 
me  everything.  Poor  child,  I  never  saw  her  in  such  a 
state.  She  did  not  attempt  to  deny  that  she  cared  for 
him.  She  was  perfectly  honest  with  me.  '  I  know  we 
love  each  other  far  too  well  ever  to  marry  any  one  else,' 
she  said  quite  frankly,  '  but  I  will  not  consent  to  ruin  his 
prospects.'  I  had  sad  work  with  Sydney,  and  I  had  just 
talked  her  into  calmness  when  a  note  from  St.  Helen's 
Towers  reached  me.  Lady  Wilde  begged  me  to  go  to  her 
that  afternoon,  and,  as  I  expected,  a  most  unpleasant 
scene  ensued.  Thurston  had  announced  his  intention 
of  marrying  Sydney,  and  his  grandmother  was  in  a  tower- 
ing rage.  I  cannot  write  particulars,  but  I  am  most 
anxious  to  talk  things  over  with  you  as  soon  as  possible. 
Could  you  come  down  for  a  day  or  two,  Githa?  I  shall 
have  to  make  arrangements  for  Sydney,  and  it  would 
be  the  greatest  possible  relief  to  have  you. — Your  devoted 
Mother." 

My  father  looked  at  me  gravely.  "  Of  course  you 
must  go,  Gipsy.  Would  it  not  be  well  to  wire  that  you 
are  going  down  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  But  we  have  promised  to  dine  with  Aunt  Cosie." 

"  Send  her  a  note  and  tell  her  I  will  go  alone ;  and, 
Gip,  I  may  as  well  drive  you  to  the  station  and  put  you 
under  the  care  of  the  guard  " ;  and  I  reluctantly  acqui- 
esced in  this.  I  should  have  preferred  waiting  until  the 
next  day ;  but  of  course  he  was  right,  and  it  was  better 
for  me  to  go  at  once. 

Before  breakfast  was  over  father  had  another  idea. 

"  Why  should  you  not  bring  Miss  Herbert  back  with 
you? — we  could  keep  her  safe  enough.  Wilde  will  not 
venture  to  follow  her  here,  and  we  should  be  glad  to 
have  her  as  long  as  your  mother  likes."  And  this  seemed 
such  a  charming  arrangement  that  I  determined  to  bring 
it  about  if  possible. 

28b 


XXIX 

LAD'S  LOVE 


It  is  easy  to  smile  when  the  sun  smiles  too, 

And  the  sky  is  a  field  of  blue ; 
But  give  me  a  smile  when  the  sun  has  gone 

And  the  sky  is  of  leaden  hue. 

Anon. 

Constancy  and  faithfulness  mean  something  else  besides  doing 
what  is  easiest  and  pleasantest  to  ourselves.  They  mean  renounc- 
ing whatever  is  opposed  to  the  reliance  others  have  in  us. — Anon. 


I  HAD  hardly  expected  to  find  Sydney  waiting  for  me  on 
the  platform  when  I  reached  Bayfield,  but  I  was  very 
glad  to  see  her,  and  told  her  so. 

"  Of  course,  I  always  meet  you,  Githa,"  she  said, 
rather  hurriedly ;  and  I  saw  at  once  she  was  a  little  shy 
and  nervous  with  me,  otherwise  she  looked  much  as 
usual. 

Sydney  was  thoroughly  healthy  in  mind  and  body. 
She  would  always  take  a  sane  view  on  all  subjects,  even 
when  she  felt  most  deeply ;  there  were  no  morbid  com- 
plications in  her  nature.  She  was  so  perfectly  natural 
that  she  would  treat  even  a  love  trouble  simply.  At  the 
end  of  our  drive  I  told  her  she  was  an  object  lesson  for 
other  girls ;  but  she  only  shook  her  head  a  little  sadly. 

As  I  had  hardly  any  luggage,  Sydney  had  driven  over 
in  the  pony  carriage,  so  we  could  talk  without  any 
restraint.     She  began  at  once  about  this  trouble,  though 

281 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

she  seemed  unwilling  to  look  at  anything  but  the  grey 
pony's  head. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  so  quickly,  Githa 
dear.    Aunt  Yvonne  is  very  much  worried." 

"  I  expect  she  is  fretting  on  your  account,  Sydney." 

"  Yes ;  and  she  is  so  sorry  for  Thurston  " — and  here 
a  deep  flush  came  to  Sydney's  cheek.  "  He  is  acting  in 
such  a  reckless  fashion,  and  Lady  Wilde  is  so  angry  and 
mortified  that  she  will  not  listen  to  reason.  Aunt  Yvonne 
will  tell  you  all  about  it,  for,  of  course,  I  have  not  been 
to  St.  Helen's  Towers." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  why  you  refused  him,  Sydney. 
Thurston  knows  very  well  that  you  care  for  him." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason,"  in  a  low  voice.  "  When 
one  cares  very  much  about  a  person,  and  wishes  to  be 
a  help  not  a  hindrance,  how  could  one  ruin  all  his  pros- 
pects? That  would  be  a  poor  return  for  his  generous 
aflFection." 

"  And  so  you  told  him  to  marry  Rhona — poor  little 
insipid  Rhona  ?  " 

"  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  Githa,"  turning  to  me 
indignantly.  "  Why  should  I  tell  him  to  do  a  thing  so 
absolutely  wrong?  No;  I  only  pointed  out  to  him  that 
he  had  treated  Rhona  badly — and  so  he  has.  Why  did 
he  go  there  morning,  noon,  and  night,  until  the  poor  little 
thing  really  believed  that  he  cared  for  her?  He  was 
merely  using  her  as  a  tool — and  it  was  unfair  and  cruel." 

"  Is  that  why  you  refused  him,  Sydney  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that  and  the  other  reason  I  gave  you  just 
now.  He  has  quarrelled  with  his  grandmother — the  poor 
old  woman  who  has  brought  him  up — and  you  know  what 
an  obstinate  temper  she  has." 

I  nodded,  and  Sydney  went  on. 

"  She  was  white  with  rage  when  Aunt  Yvonne  went 
282 


LAD'S  LOVE 

in,  and  she  said  such  insulting  things  about  me  that  Aunt 
Yvonne  told  her  that  if  she  were  not  more  careful  of  her 
words  she  would  leave  the  house,  and  this  brought  her 
to  her  senses,  and  she  half  apologised ;  but  nothing  could 
shake  her  resolve — that  Thurston  should  marry  Rhona. 
She  declared  that  he  had  jilted  the  girl  in  the  most  shame- 
ful fashion ;  that  Rhona  was  in  love  with  him ;  and  that 
Colonel  Etheridge  would  be  ready  to  horsewhip  him  for 
his  treatment  of  his  daughter.  Aunt  Yvonne  could  do 
nothing  at  all.  Lady  Wilde  said  that  her  son  had  given 
her  enough  to  bear,  but  that  she  would  not  put  up  with 
it  from  her  grandson." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  how  dreadfully  mediaeval  it  all 
sounds !    Do  you  really  think  she  will  disinherit  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  Githa,"  and  here  Sydney  seemed  on 
the  verge  of  tears.  "  She  says  that  if  Thurston  persists 
in  this  dishonourable  conduct  she  will  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  him ;  she  will  stop  his  allowance,  and  he  can 
work  for  his  bread.  Aunt  Yvonne  says  she  is  determined 
to  force  him  to  do  as  she  wishes;  and  what  will  he  do, 
poor  fellow  ? "  and  now  the  tears  ran  down  Sydney's 
face.  "  Both  Aunt  Yvonne  and  I  know  that  he  will  never 
yield  to  her  about  Rhona." 

We  were  in  sight  of  Prior's  Cot  by  this  time,  and  at 
the  sound  of  our  wheels  my  mother  came  out  into  the 
porch — the  climbing  roses  seemed  to  frame  her  in  crimson 
glory,  and  one  lovely  spray  encircled  her  soft,  silvery 
hair.  I  think  I  never  saw  a  sweeter  smile  on  any  human 
face  than  the  one  that  greeted  me. 

Strange  to  say,  she  said  the  very  same  words  as 
Sydney — "  It  is  good  of  you  to  come  so  quickly,  Githa  " ; 
and  then  in  a  lower  voice,  "  It  was  kind  of  your  father 
to  spare  you."  It  was  this  latter  part  of  her  speech  which 
made  my  kiss  warmer  than  usual. 

283 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Sydney  did  not  follow  us  into  the  drawing-room. 
She  went  upstairs  to  take  off  her  hat,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  we  were  alone. 

My  mother  was  looking  at  me  somewhat  critically. 
I  was  evidently  her  first  thought.  "  I  expected  to  see  you 
looking  much  better,"  she  observed,  in  rather  a  disap- 
pointed voice. 

"  Indeed !  I  am  quite  well,  mother  " ;  but  she  shook 
her  head. 

"  People  in  good  health  do  not  lose  flesh,  my  dear ; 
and  you  are  certainly  thinner  " ;  and  then,  with  a  touch- 
ing little  smile,  "  My  daughters  are  giving  me  a  good 
deal  of  anxiety  just  now." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  Sydney,  mother !  " 

"  Yes ;  and  she  is  so  good  and  patient,  and  tries  to 
hide  her  trouble.  I  expect  she  has  told  you  that  things 
are  at  a  deadlock  at  present.  Lady  Wilde  is  behaving  in 
a  very  early  Victorian  manner." 

"  I  should  rather  call  it  mediaeval,  mother.  Father 
thinks  her  a  regular  old  heathen ;  he  seem.s  to  take  Thurs- 
ton's part."  Alother  frowned  slightly,  and  made  no 
answer.  Perhaps  I  had  been  wanting  in  tact  to  mention 
father's  opinion ;  but  just  then  Sydney  came  in,  and  the 
subject  dropped  for  the  present. 

It  was  Sydney's  evening  at  the  Recreation  Room — 
for  the  vicar  had  organised  a  series  of  "  Pleasant  Even- 
ings "  for  the  elder  girls  and  boys  of  the  village,  and  this 
was  the  last  evening  until  October. 

I  heard  mother  tell  her  that  she  should  send  Rebecca 
to  fetch  her,  and  I  quite  understood  why  Sydney  flushed 
in  rather  a  distressed  manner,  even  if  she  had  not  replied 
quickly,  "  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  need  for  that, 
Aunt  Yvonne.     He  will  not  be  there  to-night." 

"  We  had  better  be  on  the  safe  side,"  was  mother's 
284 


LAD'S  LOVE 

answer,"  and  then  Sydney  said  no  more ;  she  was  always 
very  docile  and  submissive — far  more  than  I  should  have 
been  in  her  position.  "  Now  we  can  take  counsel  together, 
Githa  dear,"  observed  my  mother,  as  Sydney  disappeared 
from  view.  "  Come  and  sit  down  beside  me,"  and  mother 
placed  me  cosily  on  the  big  Chesterfield  couch,  which 
could  have  held  four  of  us  comfortably.  "  Now,  what 
am  I  to  do  about  Sydney?"  she  began;  "it  is  quite 
impossible  for  her  to  remain  at  Bayfield  under  the  present 
circumstances.  It  is  true  that  she  has  rejected  Thurston, 
and  that  she  is  behaving  as  well  as  a  girl  can,  but  Thurs- 
ton absolutely  refused  to  take  his  answer:  he  told  her 
that  unless  she  could  look  him  in  the  face  and  tell  him  that 
she  did  not  care  for  him,  that  he  would  go  on  asking  her 
to  marry  him ;  and  of  course  poor  Sydney  could  not  do 
that." 

"  How  could  she,  mother,  when  she  knows  how  dearly 
she  loves  him,  and  Thurston  knows  it  too  ?  " 

"Yes,  that  is  just  the  difficulty,  my  dear;  but  what 
is  to  be  done?  Lady  Wilde  is  impossible.  I  have  done 
all  I  can  to  soften  her  and  bring  her  to  reason,  but  she 
is  an  obstinate,  bigoted  old  woman — and  I  nearly  told 
her  so  to  her  face.  She  made  me  so  angry  by  her  unjust 
remarks  on  poor  Sydney,  that  I  nearly  quarrelled  with 
her — only  she  muttered  an  apology ;  and  then  one  cannot 
help  feeling  sorry  for  her.  You  see  Thurston's  father 
gave  her  so  much  trouble,  and  his  marriage  was  such  a 
blow  to  her,  and  now  this  second  disappointment  seems 
too  hard  to  bear.  I  think  in  her  own  way  that  she  is  very 
fond  of  Thurston ;  she  has  certainly  indulged  him  a  good 
deal." 

"  She  has  given  him  the  worst  possible  education  for 
a  young  man  who  has  to  make  his  way  in  the  world," 
I  returned  severely ;  "  and  if  she  deprives  him  of  his 

285 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

allowance  as  well  as  his  home,  she  will  be  doing  a  brutal 
and  shameful  thing."  But  though  mother  smiled  at  my 
vehemence,  I  knew  she  agreed  with  me ;  indeed  she  told 
me  a  moment  later  that  she  had  expressed  her  opinion  to 
Lady  Wilde  with  the  utmost  frankness. 

You  have  no  right  to  treat  your  grandson  as  though 
he  were  committing  a  crime;  he  has  fallen  in  love  with 
one  of  the  sweetest  and  best  girls  in  the  world.  Sydney's 
mother  was  a  gentlewoman  by  birth  as  well  as  nature.' 

"  '  I  do  not  intend  Thurston  to  marry  a  penniless 
girl,  Mrs.  Darnell,'  she  returned  angrily ;  '  besides,  he 
is  bound  in  honour  to  Rhona  Etheridge ;  they  have  been 
brought  up  together  almost  from  children  with  the 
knowledge  that  her  father  and  I  had  set  our  hearts  on 
this  marriage.  If  Thurston  had  objected  earlier  to  the 
arrangement  and  told  us  so — if  he  had  not  paid  attention 
to  that  poor  child  for  years  there  might  be  some  excuse 
for  him.'    But  I  interrupted  her. 

"  '  Thurston  denies  that  he  has  ever  paid  attention 
to  Rhona ;  he  declares  that  at  times  he  has  been  barely 
civil  to  her,  and  that  though  he  could  not  dislike  any  one 
so  amiable  and  inoffensive,  that  he  would  rather  remain 
single  all  his  life  than  marry  her.'  But  I  was  speaking 
to  deaf  ears ;  she  only  reiterated  her  final  decision — 
Thurston  must  give  way ;  if  he  refused  to  marry  Rhona, 
and  persisted  in  his  mad  infatuation  for  Sydney,  she 
would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him ;  he  might  draw 
his  next  quarter's  allowance,  but  that  was  the  last  penny 
of  her  money  that  he  would  ever  spend." 

"  Dear  mother,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  have  been  asking  myself  ever  since 
I  left  St.  Helen's  Towers.  Sydney  is  my  adopted  daugh- 
ter, and  I  am  anxious  and  willing  to  do  all  I  can  for 
her,  but  I  have  only  a  moderate  income,  Githa — just 

336 


LAD'S  LOVE 

sufficient  for  my  comfort ;  the  few  hundreds  that  I  have 
been  able  to  put  away  for  her  would  be  of  little  use  in 
facilitating  such  a  marriage.  Sydney  was  wise  to  refuse 
him  unconditionally,  for  I  could  not  countenance  an 
engagement  between  them." 

I  felt  that  my  mother  was  right  and  told  her  so  with- 
out hesitation,  and  she  brightened  up  in  a  wonderful 
manner. 

"  My  heart  is  on  their  side,  Githa.  I  am  very  fond 
of  Thurston ;  he  is  a  dear  fellow,  though  somewhat  reck- 
less and  even  hasty.  Well,  while  things  are  in  this  state 
I  certainly  do  not  think  Sydney  ought  to  remain  at  Bay- 
field.    I  cannot  myself  leave  home." 

"  Then  you  do  not  intend  going  away  in  August  ?  " 
I  observed. 

She  hesitated  and  looked  at  me  a  little  wistfully. 
"  Not  this  year.  The  fact  is,  dear,  I  cannot  well  afford 
it ;  one  of  my  investments  has  gone  wrong,  and  this  rather 
adds  to  the  complication ;  but  for  that  I  could  have  taken 
Sydney  to  the  Lakes." 

"  Yes,  and  I  could  have  Joined  you  there." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that,  darling?"  and  mother's 
eyes  were  wonderfully  soft ;  "  how  delightful  that  would 
have  been !  Do  not  tempt  me,  dear  one ;  I  ought  not  to 
afford  it." 

I  hardly  knew  how  to  answer  this.  I  was  quite  aware 
— for  Aunt  Cosie  had  told  me  so — that  my  mother  had 
refused  to  accept  the  handsome  maintenance  offered  to 
her  by  father,  and  lived  entirely  on  her  own  income,  which 
was  not  a  large  one ;  but  she  was  an  excellent  manager. 
Prior's  Cot  was  her  own  freehold  property — a  handsome 
legacy  from  an  uncle  had  enabled  her  to  purchase  it — 
and  with  care  and  economy  she  had  sufficient  to  live  com- 
fortably— even    luxuriously,    and    I    had    never    to    my 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

knowledge  heard  her  hint  that  she  could  not  afford 
anything. 

"  Mr.  Symonds  says  things  will  right  themselves  after 
a  time,"  she  continued,  putting  a  good  face  on  the  matter, 
but  all  the  same  I  saw  it  troubled  her.  I  knew  father 
would  have  paid  my  expenses  gladly,  but  I  had  not  the 
courage  to  say  so.  I  was  too  much  afraid  of  the  way  in 
which  she  would  draw  herself  up ;  such  a  proposal  would 
only  displease  her. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  I  murmured ;  "  but  of  course  I 
shall  come  to  you  as  usual  in  August ;  and,  mother  dear, 
I  think  I  can  help  you  out  of  your  difficulty,  but  it  was 
father's  thought  not  mine.  Let  Sydney  come  back  with 
me,  and  we  will  keep  her  as  long  as  you  like.  Father 
says  she  will  be  quite  safe  with  us." 

Mother  looked  at  me  almost  gratefully. 

"  Thank  you,  Githa.  After  all,  I  believe  that  will  be 
the  best  plan,  and  perhaps  something  else  can  be  arranged 
later  " ;  then  in  rather  a  constrained  tone,  "  Will  you 
thank  your  father  for  his  kind  thought?"  And  so  the 
matter  was  settled.  I  was  to  stay  until  Thursday,  and 
Sydney  was  to  return  with  me  and  stay  at  St.  Olave's 
Lodge  at  all  events  until  the  end  of  July;  it  would  all 
depend  upon  circumstances  whether  she  was  to  be 
allowed  to  accompany  me  to  Bayfield  at  the  beginning 
of  August.     Mother  really  was  extremely  grateful. 

"  You  have  lifted  a  load  off  me,"  she  said ;  "  it  will 
be  a  comfort  to  know  that  Sydney  will  be  with  you,  for 
it  is  so  trying  for  the  poor  child  to  have  to  keep  Thurston 
at  bay.  Now  I  hear  the  gate  unlatched,  and  I  expect 
Sydney  has  come  back,  so  we  may  as  well  ring  for  lights." 

I  thought  Sydney  looked  tired  and  out  of  spirits ;  but 
she  seemed  indisposed  for  talk,  and  wished  me  good- 
night at  the  door  of  my  room,  which  was  quite  contrary 

.  288 


LAD'S  LOVE 

to  her  usual  habit.  But  when  my  mother  came  in  for 
another  look  at  me,  she  told  me  that  poor  Sydney  had  had 
a  verj'  trying  evening. 

Thurston  had  been  there,  and  had  kept  close  to  her 
all  the  time ;  and  though  he  had  found  no  opportunity 
of  saying  what  he  wanted,  the  consciousness  of  his  pres- 
ence made  her  nervous.  When  she  left,  he  had  followed 
her  and  begged  her  to  send  Rebecca  back,  but  she  had 
refused  to  do  this.  He  looked  hurt  and  disconcerted  by 
her  unexpected  firmness,  and  they  had  walked  back  to 
Prior's  Cot  almost  in  silence. 

"  Poor  Sydney  had  a  good  cry  over  it,"  went  on  my 
mother ;  "  she  does  so  hate  to  give  him  pain,  and  she  is 
sure  he  was  much  hurt  with  her.  I  am  only  too  thankful 
that  she  is  going  away  on  Thursday,  for  Thurston  has 
no  right  to  persecute  her  in  this  way ;  he  is  behaving 
like  an  undisciplined  boy."  But  though  mother  said  this 
in  rather  a  severe  tone,  I  knew  that  her  heart  was  very 
soft  and  full  of  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  young 
lover. 


19  289 


XXX 

THEN  I  WILL  COME" 


Every  to-morrow  has  two  handles :  we  can  take  hold  of  the 
handle  of  anxiety  or  the  handle  of  faith. — Anon. 

Peace  in  this  life  springs  from  acquiescence  even  in  disagree- 
able things,  not  in  an  exemption  from  bearing  them. — Fenelon. 

Sydney  had  to  go  to  the  school  the  next  morning,  and 
she  asked  me  to  walk  across  the  green  with  her.  I  saw 
mother  look  at  me  in  rather  a  significant  way,  but  I 
scarcely  needed  the  hint.  I  had  the  presence  of  mind,  too, 
to  restrain  a  surprised  exclamation  when  Sydney  re- 
quested me  to  be  ready  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual. 
Her  reason  was  soon  made  plain  to  me,  when  on  my 
return  I  saw  Thurston  hanging  about  the  lane  with  his 
dogs.  He  looked  decidedly  crestfallen  at  seeing  me 
alone ;  indeed  he  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  his  errand. 

"Surely  Sydney  has  gone  to  the  school  much  earlier 
than  usual  ?  "  he  asked  rather  abruptly  as  he  shook  hands. 
"  As  I  came  down  the  road  the  children  were  running 
across  the  green,  and  the  bell  was  still  ringing." 

Thurston's  question  rather  confused  me,  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  expect  any  answer.  He  asked  me  the  next 
minute  to  walk  on  a  little  with  him — "  that  is,  if  you  could 
spare  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Githa  " ;  for  we  had  resumed 
our  old  friendly  ways,  and  called  each  other  by  our 
Christian  names — "  Miss  Darnell  "  and  "  Mr.  Wilde  " 
never  came  quite  naturally  to  us. 

290 


THEN  I  WILL  COME 

I  was  sorry  to  see  the  lines  of  worry  on  my  old  play- 
mate's face ;  it  looked  haggard  and  a  little  drawn. 

"  You  know  all  about  things/'  he  began  at  once,  as 
we  strolled  in  the  direction  of  the  Feltham  Road,  where 
I  had  encountered  Mr.  Carlyon,  and  as  I  nodded,  he  con- 
tinued :  "  I  am  in  a  regular  fix  at  the  present  moment. 
Gran  can't  open  her  lips  to  me  without  flying  into  a  rage, 
and  Colonel  Etheridge  cut  me  in  the  church  porch  on 
Sunday.  I  know  Rhona  was  going  to  speak  to  me,  but 
he  pulled  her  away,  poor  little  thing." 

"  I  am  afraid  from  what  mother  told  me  that  the 
Etheridges  think  that  you  have  treated  Rhona  rather 
badly." 

I  expected  Thurston  to  contradict  me  quite  fiercely, 
but  to  my  surprise  he  only  looked  at  me  in  rather  a 
dejected  manner. 

"  I  begin  to  think  that  I  have  acted  rather  shabbily," 
he  returned  gloomily ;  "  but  I  meant  no  harm.  They  say 
all  is  fair  in  love  and  war;  but  if  I  went  to  the  Mount 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  Sydney,  I  certainly  never  made  love 
to  Rhona ;  and  yet  Gran  and  Colonel  Etheridge  declare 
that  I  have  jilted  her." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  Rhona  would  not  say  so." 

"  No,  and  that  is  why  they  will  not  allow  her  to 
speak  to  me  ;  she  is  so  unselfish  and  forgiving  that  I  know 
she  would  take  our  parts.  Poor  girl,  I  should  like  to 
explain  things  to  her,  but  they  won't  give  me  a  chance." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  perhaps  the  Etheridges 
were  wise  in  breaking  ofif  all  communication  for  the 
present.  Rhona  was  certainly  in  love  with  Thurston, 
and  he  was  undoubtedly  to  blame  for  this. 

Evil    is    wrought    by    want    of   thought, 
As  well  as  want  of  heart. 
291 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

And  though  Thurston  was  a  good,  kind-hearted  fellow, 
he  had  certainly  done  much  to  wreck  poor  Rhona's  happi- 
ness. 

I  was  rather  relieved  to  know  that  they  were  not 
likely  to  meet  just  now.  Rhona  had  so  little  dignity, 
and  was  so  lacking  in  backbone,  that  it  was  probable  that 
she  would  have  betrayed  herself — with  all  her  gentleness 
and  goodness  her  character  was  anaemic.  Her  parents 
knew  this,  and  would  watch  over  her  like  dragons.  I 
could  see  that  Thurston's  conscience  was  very  uneasy  on 
the  subject  of  Rhona,  but  his  other  troubles  loomed  larger 
still  in  the  horizon,  and  then  he  commenced  pouring  out 
his  griefs  to  me. 

Sydney  had  confessed  that  she  cared  for  him,  and 
yet  she  had  refused  him,  and  declined  to  enter  into  any 
engagement.  "  She  is  avoiding  me,  and  treating  me  as 
though  I  were  committing  a  crime  in  loving  her,"  went 
on  the  poor  fellow,  "  but  she  will  soon  find  out  whose 
will  is  the  strongest." 

"  I  do  not  think  Sydney  can  well  do  otherwise,"  I 
returned ;  "  if  she  cares  for  you,  she  will  certainly  refuse 
to  injure  your  prospects." 

"  I  have  no  prospects,"  he  replied  gloomily ;  "  if  I  do 
not  accept  Gran's  conditions,  I  shall  be  practically  a 
beggar." 

"  Oh,  Thurston !  "  I  exclaimed  at  this ;  "  it  does  sound 
so  terrible.    What  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Trust  in  Providence  and  do  my  level  best,"  was 
his  answer ;  but  I  liked  his  manly  air  as  he  said  it.  "  Gran 
thinks  she  will  frighten  and  starve  me  into  accepting  her 
terms.  If  I  consent  to  marry  Rhona  I  shall  be  a  rich 
man,  and  have  an  easy  life ;  but  " — lifting  his  handsome 
head  with  the  gesture  of  a  young  prince — "  I  prefer  to 
marry  the  girl  I  love  and  to  work  for  her." 

292 


THEN  I  WILL  COME 

"  But  what  work  can  you  do,  Thurston?  "  And  at  this 
practical  question  his  face  fell  again. 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  the  difficulty.  I  am  willing  to  work, 
if  1  can  only  find  some  suitable  employment.  This  is 
just  the  point  on  which  I  think  you  can  advise  me." 

"  I !  What  can  you  mean,  Thurston  ?  I  have  no  expe- 
rience at  all." 

"  No,  but  you  have  plenty  of  common  sense,  and 
you  are  so  good-natured  that  you  would  be  glad  to  help 
*  a  lame  dog  over  a  stile.'  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you 
thought  I  might  consult  your  father  on  this  point.  I  have 
always  found  him  so  kind  and  friendly,  that  I  am  sure 
he  would  give  me  sound  advice." 

I  was  charmed  with  this  idea,  and  told  Thurston  so 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  he  seemed  quite 
relieved. 

"  It  is  the  best  thing  you  could  possibly  do,"  I  went 
on.  "  Father  is  so  clear-headed  and  practical,  and  he  is 
always  so  ready  to  help  people ;  he  never  minds  how 
much  trouble  he  takes." 

"  Then  I  should  not  be  taking  a  liberty  or  presuming 
on  a  short  acquaintance?"  he  asked  anxiously;  but  I 
cut  him  short. 

"  What  nonsense,  Thurston !  but  then  you  don't  know 
father  as  well  as  I  do.  If  you  take  my  advice,  you  will 
lose  no  time — why  not  go  to-morrow?  and  I  will  write 
and  say  you  are  coming.  Wednesday  is  rather  a  good 
day,  for  father  is  often  home  quite  early  in  the  afternoon." 
Thurston  seemed  pleased  with  my  suggestion.  He  said 
he  would  sleep  in  town,  and  call  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge 
about  four,  and  if  father  had  not  returned,  he  would  waif 
for  him.  I  was  quite  sure  in  my  own  mind  that  father 
would  keep  him  to  dinner,  and  very  probably  offer  him  a 
bed.    I  knew  how  interested  he  was  in  him  and  Sydney, 

293 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  he  would  do  his  very  best  for  them  both.  I  would 
give  father  a  hint  that  Thurston  must  not  come  to  St. 
Olave's  Lodge  while  Sydney  was  with  us. 

Thurston  looked  at  his  watch  when  he  had  settled 
this  arrangement  to  our  satisfaction,  and  then  he  excused 
himself  rather  hurriedly.  "  You  have  been  awfully  good 
to  me,  Githa,  and  I  am  very  grateful,  but  I  must  not  talk 
any  more.  I  must  take  the  dogs  back  and  make  my  way 
to  the  station,  for  I  am  to  have  luncheon  with  two  fellows 
at  Henley  " ;  and  then  he  shook  hands  and  rushed  off  like 
a  whirlwind.  I  felt  very  sorry  for  Sydney  as  I  followed 
Thurston  more  slowly  down  the  road.  How  could  she 
help  loving  such  a  fine-hearted,  chivalrous  young  fellow ! 
Somehow  with  all  his  faults  I  never  thought  so  highly 
of  my  old  playmate  as  I  did  that  morning.  Thurston  had 
hardly  disappeared  from  sight  before  I  encountered 
another  friend,  for  not  far  from  the  place  where  I  had 
seen  him  last,  was  Mr.  Carlyon,  talking  to  an  old  shepherd 
beside  a  gate.  He  saw  me  coming,  and  broke  off  his 
talk  a  little  abruptly.  He  seemed  much  surprised  at  see- 
ing me. 

"I  had  no  idea  you  were  in  Bayfield,"  he  observed; 
but  I  thought  he  looked  pleased.  "  You  appear  to  haunt 
the  Feltham  Road,  Miss  Darnell.  Young  Wilde  passed 
me  just  now  with  his  dogs ;  he  seemed  in  a  tremendous 
hurry,  for  he  would  not  stop  to  speak." 

"  He  has  to  catch  the  train  for  Henley,"  was  my 
reply ;  "  he  is  lunching  with  some  friends  there." 

I  thought  Mr.  Carlyon  gave  me  rather  a  searching 
look,  but  he  only  said :  "  I  hope  j'ou  have  come  to  stay 
for  some  little  time ;  your  last  visit  was  very  brief." 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  am  going  back  on  Thursday,  and 
Miss  Herbert  will  accompany  me."  And  then  I  said  a 
little  awkwardly :  "  I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  before  I 
left,  but  I  hope  Stella  gave  you  my  message." 

204 


THEN  I  WILL  COME 

"  Oh  yes,  I  had  it  all  right " ;  but  I  fancied  Mr. 
Carlyon  bit  his  lip  to  conceal  a  smile. 

"  Stella  is  a  shrewd  little  person,  only  her  imagination 
sometimes  runs  away  with  her  " ;  and  I  wondered  vaguely 
what  he  meant  by  that. 

"  I  hope  she  and  Cyril  are  quite  well." 

"  Perfectly  so,  thank  you ;  to  judge  from  their  appe- 
tites at  breakfast.  I  understand  from  Peace  they  beat 
the  record ;  perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  they  insisted 
on  saying  their  grace  three  times  over.  '  We  always 
does  it  when  we  has  sausages,'  Stella  informed  me,  '  and 
we  always  have  sausages  on  Peace's  birthday.  Peace  is 
such  a  great  age — she  is  nearly  an  old  woman.'  To  the 
best  of  my  knowledge  I  believe  that  Peace  is  thirty-five." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  his  droll  manner.  He 
always  revelled  in  Stella's  queer  speeches ;  but  to  my 
surprise  he  grew  suddenly  grave  again. 

"  Do  you  know  poor  old  Peggy  Knowles  went  Home 
last  night  ?  "  he  observed.  "  That  was  her  brother  Patrick 
to  whom  I  was  talking.  He  is  shepherd  at  the  Upland 
Farm." 

"  Were  you  with  her  when  she  died,  A/Ir.  Carlyon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  neighbour  of  hers  fetched  me.  It  was  a  very 
peaceful  passing.  I  think  " — very  quietly — "  our  Lord 
is  especially  tender  to  his  old  tired-out  children,  and  that 
the  angels  are  charged  to  take  them  very  gently  through 
the  dark  valley." 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  my  answer ;  but  to  my  surprise  an 
unusual  smile  came  to  his  lips. 

"  Peggy's  thoughts  were  full  of  her  cottage.  Not 
long  before  the  end  when  she  was  fairly  sensible,  and  I 
had  been  saying  a  prayer  or  two,  she  laid  her  wrinkled 
old  hand  on  mine. 

" '  It  will  be  fine  to  see  Steeve  sitting  in  the  chimney- 
295 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

corner,  warming  his  hands  in  the  old  way,  and  maybe 
as  we  sit  there  together,  so  peaceful  like,  we  shall  hear 
the  Master  lift  the  latch,  and  then — oh,  the  dear  beautiful 
Face ! '  These  were  her  last  words.  A  little  later  she 
fell  asleep,  and  no  one  knew  the  moment  of  passing." 

I  was  glad  to  hear  this — it  seemed  to  me  so  touching ; 
and  I  was  glad  to  think  also  that  Mr.  Carlyon  was  with 
her  to  the  last.  When  I  knew  him  better  he  told  me  that 
he  always  liked  to  be  with  his  dying  people,  and  that  he 
had  more  than  once  given  out  publicly  that  he  would 
willingly  go  to  them  night  or  day.  In  many  respects 
he  was  an  ideal  parson,  and  the  people  very  soon  found 
this  out  for  themselves. 

As  we  passed  the  bench  where  we  had  sat  that  day 
Mr.  Carlyon  paused,  and  then  asked  if  I  would  not  like 
to  rest  for  a  few  minutes ;  "  for,"  he  continued  frankly, 
"  you  have  no  idea  how  tired  you  look."  And  I  accepted 
the  suggestion  gratefully. 

I  was  a  little  startled,  however,  when  the  next  moment 
he  began  talking  about  Thurston,  and  then  he  told  me 
that  he  had  called  at  St.  Helen's  Towers,  and  had  heard 
Lady  Wilde's  version  of  the  trouble.  She  had  begged 
him  to  use  his  influence  with  her  grandson,  and  he  had 
sent  Thurston  a  note  asking  him  to  dine  with  him  that 
evening.  "  We  had  a  long  talk,  and  as  I  know  from 
Mrs.  Darnell  that  you  are  fully  aware  of  the  state  of 
things,  I  see  no  harm  in  telling  you  that  my  opinions 
veered  round  to  quite  another  point  of  the  compass,  and 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  tell  Lady  Wilde  that  I  must  decline 
to  use  my  influence  in  the  way  she  suggests." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  on  Thurston's  side  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly,  although,  as  I  told  him  with  perfect 
frankness,  his  conduct  to  Miss  Etheridge  had  not  been 
generous ;  but  with  that  exception  I  sympathise  with  him 

296 


THEN  I  WILL  COME 

very  strongly.  My  next  visit  to  St.  Helen's  Towers  vi^ill 
not  be  a  pleasant  one,  but  I  shall  certainly  speak  my  mind 
to  Lady  Wilde." 

"  Then  she  will  quarrel  with  you  as  she  has  with 
mother,  and  I  am  afraid  she  and  the  Etheridges  will  make 
things  very  uncomfortable  for  you." 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  are  right,"  he 
returned  coolly,  "  but  all  the  same  I  must  do  my  duty. 
The  whole  thing  is  monstrous ;  every  man  has  a  right 
to  choose  a  wife  for  himself.  In  my  opinion,  Thurston 
Wilde  has  made  an  excellent  choice.  Miss  Herbert  is  one 
of  my  best  workers.  I  think  most  highly  of  her,  and  he 
is  a  lucky  fellow  who  gets  her.  When  Wilde  told  me 
that  he  meant  to  take  his  grandmother  at  her  word  and 
to  look  out  for  work  without  delay,  I  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  called  him  a  brave  fellow ;  for,  let  me  tell 
you,  Miss  Darnell,"  he  continued  seriously,  "  it  is  no 
slight  sacrifice  that  he  is  making.  He  is  giving  up  wealth, 
position,  and  the  life  congenial  to  his  tastes  for  the  sake 
of  the  girl  he  loves." 

I  was  so  pleased  to  hear  him  speak  of  Thurston  in 
this  appreciative  way  that  I  could  not  forbear  telling  him 
about  our  conversation.  He  was  extremely  interested, 
and  said  at  once  that  it  seemed  an  excellent  suggestion. 

"  I  do  not  know  Mr.  Darnell  personally,"  he  observed, 
"  but  from  what  you  tell  me,  he  will  probably  be  of  the 
greatest  assistance  to  Wilde.  It  is  my  private  opinion 
that  if  he  has  plenty  of  backbone  and  shows  his  deter- 
mination to  set  to  work  at  once,  that  Lady  Wilde  may  in 
time  be  brought  to  reason ;  but  of  course  that  remains  to 
be  proved." 

We  talked  a  little  more  on  this  subject.  Mr.  Carlyon 
told  me  that  he  was  very  pleased  that  Miss  Herbert  was 
to  pay  us  a  long  visit.    "  You  will  do  each  other  good," 

297 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

he  observed,  in  such  a  kind  way,  and  then  he  asked  me  a 
Httle  abruptly  when  I  intended  to  come  down  for  a  longer 
visit.  It  struck  me  that  he  waited  rather  anxiously  for 
my  answer,  for  when  I  announced  my  intention  of  coming 
down  for  August  he  looked  quite  sorry. 

"  There !  "  he  observed  in  a  regretful  tone ;  "  I  had  an 
inward  conviction  that  you  would  tell  me  that." 

"Are  you  going  away?"  I  stammered;  and  I  hope  I 
did  not  look  as  disappointed  as  I  felt. 

"  Yes,"  he  returned  rather  gravely.  "  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  I  shall  be  away  the  whole  of  August.  The  old 
college  friend  who  generally  acts  as  my  locum  tenens  can 
only  come  then,  besides  which  I  am  pledged  to  another 
friend  to  go  with  him  to  the  Austrian  Tyrol." 

"And  the  children?" 

"  Oh,  Peace  will  take  them  to  Binstead.  She  has  a 
mother  and  brother  living  there ;  they  have  a  small  farm, 
and  are  very  decent,  respectable  people,  and  they  have 
two  rooms  to  let.  The  children  fairly  revel  in  all  the 
animal  life  on  the  farm — chickens,  ducks,  and  young  pigs. 
Peace  envelops  the  children  in  blue  overalls,  and  they 
run  wild  from  morning  to  night." 

I  had  to  say  that  this  was  an  excellent  arrangement, 
but  I  am  afraid  my  remarks  sounded  a  little  flat.  I  could 
hardly  conceal  my  intense  disappointment.  The  Vicarage 
tenanted  by  strangers ;  no  heavenly-minded  twins  playing 
funerals  and  angels  in  the  churchyard ;  no  grinning  Golli- 
wog in  a  red  tie  hanging  limply  over  a  tombstone. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Bayfield  would  be  almost  de- 
serted. The  Etheridges  and  Lady  Wilde  were  generally 
away  in  August ;  there  would  be  no  Thurston  to  take  us 
on  the  river,  and  probably  Sydney  would  be  absent.  I 
should  be  alone  with  mother. 


298 


THEN  I  WILL  COME 

"  Things  will  go  crookedly  in  this  world,"  went  on 
Mr.  Carlyon,  but  his  cheerful  tone  seemed  a  little  forced. 
"  I  am  really  very  sorry  to  miss  your  summer  visit,  but 
probably  you  and  Mrs.  Darnell  will  go  away  too." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  I  believe  mother  means  to  stay 
at  Prior's  Cot  this  year."  Something  in  my  tone  seemed 
to  strike  him,  for  he  turned  and  looked  at  me  in  a  singu- 
larly penetrating  manner. 

"  Perhaps  good  may  come  out  of  this,"  he  observed 
quietly.  "  Your  very  dependence  on  each  other  for 
society  may  draw  you  and  your  mother  more  closely 
together  " ;  but  I  made  no  answer  to  this. 

"  You  must  not  lose  heart,"  he  continued  very  gently. 
"  Things  will  not  come  right  in  a  hurry,  and,  my  dear 
Miss  Darnell,  your  work  is  rather  a  difficult  one.  Let 
me  give  you  a  bit  of  advice ;  it  is  not  original,  but  there 
is  much  wisdom  in  it :  '  Never  bear  more  than  one  trouble 
at  a  time.  Some  people  bear  three  kinds — all  they  ever 
had,  all  they  have  now,  and  all  they  expect  to  have.' 
Things  may  straighten  out  better  than  you  think." 

"  I  wish  I  could  feel  more  hopeful,  Mr.  Carlyon." 

Then  he  smiled  and  took  my  hand,  for  we  were  at  the 
entrance  of  the  lane,  and  I  could  see  Sydney  crossing 
the  little  Goose  Green.  "  Now,  as  I  have  a  child's  funeral 
at  twelve,  I  must  bid  you  good-bye." 

"  It  will  be  good-bye  for  a  long  time,"  I  returned, 
trying  to  smile. 

"  Oh  no,  I  hope  not.  Perhaps,  if  you  give  me  leave, 
I  will  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  at  St.  Olave's 
Lodge.  I  should  like  to  make  Mr.  Darnell's  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  I  am  sure  father  will  be  very  pleased  to  see  you," 
I  returned  a  little  shyly,  for  he  was  looking  at  me  so 


299 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

intently  that  I  felt  rather  confused ;  "  and,"  fearing  I  had 
been  a  little  ungracious,  "  I  shall  be  very  pleased,  too." 

"  Then  I  will  come,"  was  all  he  said,  and  after  that 
we  shook  hands,  and  he  went  quickly  in  the  direction  of 
the  church,  while  I  waited  in  a  shady  corner  for  Sydney 
to  join  me. 


300 


XXXI 

THURSTON  OBTAINS  A  BERTH 


We  ask  for  heroic  duties,  but  the  duties  that  lie  to  our  hand 
are  heroic.  The  so-called  heroic  occurrences  are,  after  all,  often 
easier,  and  therefore  less  heroic  than  the  common-place  trials 
that  daily  test  the  stuff  of  which  we  are  made. — Hugh  Blank. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love ;  'twill  make  a 
thing  endurable,  which  else  would  overset  the  brain,  or  break 
the  heart. — Wordsworth. 

I  THOUGHT  it  better  to  have  no  reserves  with  Sydney, 
so  I  told  her  about  my  talk  with  Thurston.  She  made 
no  remark  until  I  mentioned  his  intention  to  consult 
father  about  work ;  then  she  grew  very  pale. 

"  That  looks  as  though  he  means  to  give  up  every- 
thing," she  observed  sorrowfully. 

"  Of  course  he  means  to  give  up  everything,"  I 
returned  indignantly.  "  Did  you  think  he  was  only  play- 
ing with  you,  Sydney,  when  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?  " 

"  Oh  no ;  I  never  thought  that." 

"  You  could  hardly  make  such  a  mistake  as  that," 
was  my  reply ;  "  no  man  could  be  more  in  earnest  than 
Thurston !  He  is  not  only  giving  up  home  and  wealth, 
and  most  of  the  things  a  young  man  prizes,  but  he  actually 
glories  in  his  self-sacrifice.  He  is  like  one  of  the  knights 
of  old,  Sydney :  he  is  going  into  the  lists  to  wage  war 
for  his  liege  lady." 

This  little  rhapsody  seemed  to  touch  her. 
301 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  But  he  will  be  so  absolutely  poor,"  she  observed, 
after  a  moment's  consideration  ;  "  he  has  not  been  brought 
up  with  the  idea  of  working  for  his  living,  and  he  will 
have  so  much  to  learn,  and  beginners  earn  so  very  little  " ; 
for  Sydney  was  none  the  less  practical  for  being  in  love. 
She  looked  so  cast  down  and  unhappy  on  Thurston's- 
account,  that  I  had  to  cheer  her  up. 

"  Thurston  is  really  clever — he  will  not  always  be  a 
beginner — and  I  expect  father  will  be  able  to  help  him  ;  he 
took  a  fancy  to  Thurston  from  the  very  first,  and  he 
knows  so  many  people,  and  can  give  him  such  valuable 
introductions  " ;  and  Sydney  seemed  a  little  comforted. 
But  it  struck  me  then,  as  it  did  afterwards,  how  little 
she  thought  of  herself  and  her  own  trouble,  in  comparison 
with  his ;  it  was  no  mere  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  she 
was  perfectly  ready  to  efface  herself  if  it  would  be  for 
his  advantage  and  happiness. 

"  I  believe  you  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  his 
marrying  Rhona,"  I  said,  rather  reproachfully,  to  her  one 
day ;  but  she  did  not  try  to  defend  herself. 

"  If  marrying  Rhona  would  ensure  his  happiness,  you 
are  undoubtedly  right,  Githa,"  she  replied.  "  Thurston's 
well-being  and  peace  of  mind  must  always  come  first 
with  me,  but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that  she 
would  ever  satisfy  him." 

"  That  shows  your  good  sense,"  was  my  answer ;  but 
she  only  sighed  and  looked  at  me  thoughtfully.  "  If 
only  I  could  be  sure  that  he  will  not  miss  the  old  life  too 
much,  and  that  he  could  be  content  with  a  little — no,  do 
not  smile,  Githa ;  if  ever  you  care  for  any  one  as  I  care 
for  Thurston,  you  will  know  what  I  mean — and  how  his 
happiness  is  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  me  than  my  own." 

I  wish  Thurston  could  have  heard  her.  Sydney  looked 
quite  beautiful  at  that  moment,  and  there  was  such  an 

302 


THURSTON  OBTAINS  A  BERTH 

earnest  ring  in  her  voice,  I  felt  rather  ashamed  of  my 
petulance  and  impatience. 

"  If  I  cared  for  any  one  as  you  care  for  Thurston,"  I 
said  slowly, "'  I  think  I  should  feel  as  you  do,  Sydney  " ; 
but  here  a  sudden  catching  in  my  throat  checked  me — 
"^  if  I  cared  for  somebody !  "  How  strange  that  Sydney 
should  say  that. 

I  think  mother  was  pleased  to  know  that  Thurston 
wished  to  consult  father;  not  that  she  said  so,  but  her 
manner  gave  me  that  impression. 

"  Your  father  is  a  very  good  business  man,"  she  said 
quietly,  "  and  he  has  much  experience  and  a  great  many 
friends " ;  and  then  she  begged  me  not  to  encourage 
Thurston's  visits  while  Sydney  was  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge. 
"  I  think  it  would  be  far  better  for  them  to  see  as  little 
as  possible  of  each  other  for  the  present,"  she  continued. 
"  Thurston  must  test  his  feelings,  and  Sydney  must  have 
time  to  make  up  her  mind  whether  Thurston  is  necessary 
to  her  happiness."  And  as  I  knew  father  would  agree 
with  her,  I  did  not  dispute  this ;  but  I  asked  mother  to 
tell  me  all  she  could  find  out  about  Rhona. 

"  That  will  be  very  little,  I  expect,  Githa  " ;  and  I 
found  to  my  regret  that  she  was  right. 

Mother  drove  to  the  station  with  us  the  next  day. 
I  could  see  that  Sydney  was  much  depressed,  though  she 
tried  hard  to  hide  it.  She  did  not  like  leaving  home 
again  so  soon ;  her  attachment  to  her  adopted  mother 
was  very  real  and  deep;  she  not  only  loved  her,  but  she 
believed  in  her  implicitly. 

She  told  me  once  quite  seriously — for  Sydney  never 
gushed — that  she  thought  her  Aunt  Yvonne  as  near  per- 
fection as  a  woman  could  be.  "  She  is  beautiful  in  person 
and  mind  and  character,"  she  went  on ;  "  her  ideals  are 
higher  than  other  people's,  and  this  often  makes  her 

303 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

unhappy,  I  think  even  you,  Githa,  hardly  know  how 
good  she  is."  This  speech  rather  wounded  me,  but  I  let 
it  pass.  I  knew  Sydney  could  see  no  fault  in  her  second 
mother,  and  that  in  her  honest  heart  she  believed  every 
word  she  said,  and  I  almost  envied  her. 

We  had  taken  an  earlier  train  than  usual,  and  father 
was  not  at  home  when  we  arrived,  so  I  took  Sydney  to 
her  room  and  left  her  to  unpack  and  settle  in,  while  I 
had  a  chat  with  Mardie.  I  found  out  from  her  that 
Thurston  had  slept  there,  and  that  he  and  father  had 
gone  out  together  directly  after  breakfast. 

"  And  they  sat  up  late,  too,"  she  went  on.  "  It  chimed 
the  half  hour  after  one  before  they  were  in  their  rooms, 
so  they  must  have  found  a  deal  to  say  to  each  other :  but 
the  master's  voice  sounded  quite  cheerful  when  he  wished 
Mr.  Wilde  good-night." 

We  heard  father  drive  up  at  this  moment,  and  I  ran 
down  to  see  him.  He  greeted  me  in  his  loving  way, 
asked  after  Sydney,  and  then  drew  me  into  the  library, 
saying  he  would  be  glad  to  have  a  talk  with  me  alone ; 
and  then  he  recapitulated  all  that  Mardie  had  just  told 
me — Thurston  had  dined  and  slept  there,  and  they  had 
sat  up  late  talking  over  things. 

"  I  think  Thurston  Wilde  is  a  fine,  manly  young 
fellow,"  he  continued.  "  He  has  plenty  of  pluck  and 
determination,  and  is  ready  to  put  his  shoulder  to  the 
wheel,  and  I  mean  to  help  him  to  the  best  of  my  power. 
As  he  seems  to  be  a  fair  accountant,  and  is  rather  fond 
of  figures,  I  propose  to  take  him  into  the  Bank.  There 
is  a  vacancy  just  now,  since  young  Tillotson  had  to  give 
up,    I  need  not  say  that  he  accepted  my  offer." 

"  Oh,  father,  how  good  of  you !  and  Thurston  knows 
nothing  about  business." 

"  I  daresay  not,  but  he  has  a  head  on  his  shoulders 
304 


THURSTON  OBTAINS  A  BERTH 

and  can  learn,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  will  do  his  best. 
I  daresay  he  will  not  earn  his  salary  at  first.  I  had  a  talk 
with  our  manager,  and  he  has  promised  to  keep  an  eye 
on  him ;  and  Jem  Beresford — you  remember  him,  Gipsy 
— that  good-looking  young  fellow  who  used  to  come 
down  when  I  was  laid  up  with  a  sprained  ankle  " ;  and 
as  I  nodded,  "  Well,  Jem  is  going  to  coach  him  a  bit." 

"What  salary  shall  you  give  him,  father?"  Then  I 
noticed  father  hesitated. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  doing  quite  the  usual  thing,  but  he 
is  to  start  with  a  hundred  a  year.  I  don't  suppose  his 
work  will  be  worth  much  for  the  first  few  months  until 
he  has  mastered  some  of  the  details ;  but,  as  I  told  Mac- 
donald,  I  will  put  up  with  that." 

"Wasn't  Thurston  very  grateful,  father?" 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  more  so ;  and  he  expressed 
himself  very  properly.  Oh,  there  is  another  thing,  Gipsy. 
As  he  means  to  begin  work  next  week,  I  was  anxious  to 
find  him  decent  lodgings,  and  Beresford  helped  me  there. 
You  know  Jem's  father  was  a  country  vicar,  but  since 
his  death  his  mother  and  sister  have  had  hard  work  to 
make  ends  meet.  They  have  a  house  in  Gresham  Terrace, 
and  Jem  says  they  could  let  Wilde  have  two  fairly  com- 
fortable rooms.     Don't  you  think  that  a  good  plan?" 

"  It  is  perfectly  splendid ;  but,  father,  Gresham  Ter- 
race is  close  to  Chelsea  Hospital ;  that  will  be  rather  near 
when  Sydney  is  with  us !  " 

Father  gave  a  low  whistle  of  dismay.  "  Then  we 
shall  have  to  send  her  back  to  Bayfield,  for  Thurston 
Wilde  has  quite  decided  to  take  the  rooms.  I  invited 
Jem  to  join  us  at  luncheon,  and  then  we  went  round  to 
Gresham  Terrace,  and  were  introduced  to  Mrs.  Beresford 
and  her  daughter.     She  is  ([uite  a  gentlewoman,  Gipsy — 

20  305 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

a  nice,  quiet  little  woman,  very  gentle  in  manner ;  and 
Miss  Caroline  is  a  pleasant,  good-natured  looking  person. 
I  should  say  that  she  is  half  a  dozen  years  older  than 
Jem ;  she  is  a  daily  governess,  I  believe.  I  thought  it 
would  be  nice  for  you  to  have  an  old  friend  settled  near 
us,  and  then  we  can  show  him  little  attentions — ask  him 
to  dinner,  or  offer  him  a  seat  at  the  theatre — for  I  am 
afraid  he  will  be  a  bit  dull  at  first." 

I  gave  father  a  grateful  and  appreciative  hug.  I 
knew  how  generous  he  had  been,  and  how  he  had  planned 
for  Thurston's  comfort.  It  would  be  far  better  for 
Thurston  to  be  near  us — we  could  cheer  him  up  in  a 
hundred  ways — and  when  Sydney  had  gone  back  to  Bay- 
field, St.  Olave's  Lodge  could  be  a  second  home  to  him. 

I  asked  father  presently  what  Thurston  would  do 
with  his  dogs.  Ben,  the  bull-terrier,  was  absolutely 
devoted  to  his  master,  and  so  was  Laddie,  the  beautiful 
red-brown  setter.  To  my  surprise  he  told  me  that  the 
Beresfords  had  no  objection  to  dogs,  and  that  Ben  would 
be  allowed  to  take  up  his  quarters  there ;  and  that  Mr. 
Carlyon,  who  was  a  great  admirer  of  Laddie,  had  offered 
him  a  home  at  the  Vicarage.  He  was  a  gentle,  affec- 
tionate creature,  and  all  children  loved  him,  and  he  would 
have  his  freedom  at  Bayfield.  London  was  clearly  im- 
possible for  Laddie  under  the  present  circumstances. 
Father  went  on  to  say  that  Thurston  intended  to  make 
the  break  at  once,  and  to  come  up  to  town  the  following 
week. 

"  St.  Helen's  Towers  is  not  a  very  bright  abode  just 
now,  Gipsy.  Wilde  tells  me  that  his  grandmother  has 
sent  him  to  Coventry,  and  never  speaks  except  to  quarrel 
with  him.  He  is  going  to  leave  some  of  his  things  at 
the  Vicarage,  but  he  will  bring  his  books  and  bicycle. 
Poor  fellow,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  bit  of  business,  and  I 

306 


THURSTON  OBTAINS  A  BERTH 

can  see  that  he  feels  it  much.  I  think  in  his  way  he  is 
rather  attached  to  the  old  woman  " ;  and  I  knew  this  was 
the  truth.  Up  to  the  present  time  his  grandmother  had 
indulged  and  petted  him ;  she  had  encouraged  him  in  his 
love  of  comfort  and  luxury,  and  had  brought  him  up  to 
believe  that  at  her  death  he  would  be  a  rich  man.  "  Gran 
has  been  awfully  good  to  me."  How  often  I  have  heard 
Thurston  say  that. 

Hallett  brought  in  tea,  and  then  Sydney  came  down. 
Father  was  very  kind  to  her.  I  think  he  noticed  that  she 
was  rather  depressed.  He  told  her  that  he  must  get  a  safe 
animal  for  her  to  ride,  and  Sydney  brightened  up  at  this, 
for  she  dearly  loved  riding. 

I  had  no  opportunity  of  talking  to  her  about  Thurston 
until  father  had  left  the  house  the  next  morning,  and  then 
we  sat  on  the  balcony  and  I  told  her  everything. 

She  seemed  profoundly  grateful  to  father,  and  said 
such  nice  things  about  him ;  but  I  could  see  the  idea  of  the 
Bank  made  her  miserable. 

"  Oh,  poor  Thurston !  "  she  said,  in  such  a  distressed 
voice ;  "  and  to  think  it  is  all  my  fault,  Githa — not  that 
I  could  help  his  falling  in  love  with  me.  But  if  Aunt 
Yvonne  had  not  given  me  a  home,  all  this  would  not  have 
happened." 

This  was  so  unlike  Sydney,  that  I  stared  at  her  aghast. 
"  I  don't  see  that  it  is  any  fault  of  yours,"  I  remarked 
presently. 

"  No ;  but  one  is  so  ready  to  blame  oneself  when 
things  go  crookedly,  and  it  does  make  me  so  unhappy, 
Githa,  to  see  how  I  am  spoiling  Thurston's  life  " ;  and 
here  she  quite  broke  down. 

"  How  will  he  bear  the  confinement  and  drudgery 
after  all  those  years  of  freedom — adding  up  figures 
instead  of  shooting  and  boating,  and  wandering  through 

307 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

the  woods  with  his  dogs?  He  used  to  enjoy  every 
moment  of  the  day,  though  people  did  say  he  had  a  dull 
life  for  a  young  man ;  but  though  he  often  grumbled, 
and  said  he  hated  being  tied  so  closely  to  his  grand- 
mother's  apron-strings,  he  could  not  deny  that  she  was 
good  to  him ;  but  now,  oh,  Githa  " ;  and  Sydney's  eyes 
filled  again  with  tears. 

Of  course  I  tried  to  cheer  her  up  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. I  told  her  how  lucky  Thurston  was  to  find  such 
comfortable  quarters. 

"  The  Beresfords  are  gentle-people  though  they  are 
poor,"  I  observed ;  "  and  Jem  Beresford  will  be  such  a 
nice  companion  for  Thurston,  and  then  he  will  have 
Ben  with  him — it  would  have  broken  his  heart  to  part 
with  Ben — and  Mr.  Carlyon  has  promised  to  give  Laddie 
a  home." 

"  Every  one  is  very  kind  " ;  but  she  still  spoke  in  a 
dejected  voice. 

"  When  you  are  gone,  Sydney,"  I  went  on  cheerfully, 
"  Thurston  can  come  here  as  often  as  he  likes,  and  we 
mean  to  be  good  to  him." 

"  That  is  very  sweet  of  you,  Githa." 

"  You  need  not  think  he  is  going  to  lead  such  a  dull 
life  after  all,"  I  went  on.  "  We  shall  take  him  to  the 
theatre  or  opera,  and  invite  him  when  we  have  nice  people 
coming.  As  for  drudgery  and  confinement :  if  Thurston 
had  no  motive  for  his  work,  you  might  pity  him  as  much 
as  you  please ;  but  you  forget  for  whom  he  is  working 
and  of  whom  he  will  be  thinking  as  he  sits  at  his  desk." 
And  then  I  saw  by  her  blush  that  I  had  touched  the  right 
chord  at  last.  "  '  To  make  an  end  of  Selfishness  is  Hap- 
piness,' "  I  quoted  presently.  "  '  This  is  the  greatest  hap- 
piness— to  subdue  the  selfish  thoughts  of  "  L"  '  This  is 
the  teaching  of  Buddha."     And  then  as  Sydney  seemed 

308 


THURSTON  OBTAINS  A  BERTH 

properly  impressed  with  the  sentiment,  the  conversation 
became  more  cheerful. 

She  confessed  that  things  might  have  been  far  worse 
for  Thurston.  He  would  be  settled  comfortably  near 
friends,  and  would  have  sufficient  for  his  maintenance, 
and  if  they  could  not  meet,  they  could  at  least  have  the 
happiness  of  hearing  of  each  other.  "  I  know  how  good 
you  will  be  to  poor  Thurston,"  she  went  on,  "  and  how 
you  will  tell  me  about  him  in  your  letters  "  ;  and  of  course 
I  promised  to  do  this. 

Sydney  seemed  more  cheerful  after  this  conversation, 
though  she  was  still  a  little  thoughtful  and  abstracted 
at  times. 

Father  lost  no  time  in  procuring  a  horse  for  her  use, 
and  we  either  rode  with  him  before  breakfast  or  in  the 
late  afternoon ;  and  these  rides  gave  Sydney  much  enjoy- 
ment. I  noticed  that  she  wrote  to  mother  almost  daily, 
and  as  I  was  now  in  the  habit  of  writing  twice  a  week, 
she  was  kept  well  informed  of  our  movements. 

Her  letters  in  reply  were  full  of  interest  to  us. 
Thurston  had  called  at  Prior's  Cot  to  bid  good-bye;  he 
was  in  better  spirits  and  seemed  determined  to  put  a 
good  face  on  things,  though  he  evidently  realised  his 
position  keenly.  He  told  her  that  his  grandmother  was 
fretting  herself  ill,  that  she  scarcely  ever  spoke  to  him, 
and  that  meals  were  taken  in  gloomy  silence,  and  that 
he  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time  at  the  Vicarage. 

"  He  is  exceedingly  grateful  to  your  father,  Githa," 
she  wrote,  "  and  thinks  most  highly  of  his  opinion.  Mr. 
Carlyon  came  in  directly  Thurston  had  left,  and  we  had 
a  long  talk ;  he  agreed  with  me  that  nothing  can  be  better 
than  the  arrangement  with  the  Bercsfords,  and  his  being 
so  near  St,  Olave's  Lodge  will  be  a  great  resource  to 
him. 

309 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Of  course,  there  will  be  nothing  to  prevent  Sydney 
coming  back  with  you  in  August.  I  know  for  certain 
that  the  Etheridges  are  going  to  Cornwall,  and  in  all 
probability  Lady  Wilde  will  be  away ;  indeed,  I  am  afraid 
you  will  have  a  dull  visit  " ;  but  I  refused  to  endorse  this. 


310 


XXXII 

AT  THE  SCHOOL  OF  ART  NEEDLEWORK 


Comfort  one  another  with  the  hand-clasp  close  and  tender, 

With  the  sweetness  love  can  render, 

And  the  looks  of  friendly  eyes. 

Do  not  wait  with  grace  unspoken, 

While  life's  daily  bread  is  broken, 

Gentle  speech  is  oft  like  manna  from  the  skies. 

M.  E.  Sangster. 

The  next  event  was  Miss  Redford's  wedding.  Father 
had  received  an  invitation,  but  had  excused  himself,  on 
the  plea  of  business,  from  going  to  the  church,  though 
he  promised  to  look  in  at  the  reception  and  take  me  home. 
I  thought  this  was  very  good  of  him,  for  I  knew  he  hated 
weddings,  but  he  was  anxious  to  show  his  respect  to  Miss 
Redford.  The  Burfords  had  arranged  everything  very 
nicely  and  in  good  taste,  and  I  never  saw  Reddy  look  so 
handsome;  her  grey  dress  and  hat  just  suited  her,  and 
she  wore  some  fine  old  lace,  at  her  throat  and  wrists, 
which  had  belonged  to  her  mother ;  she  really  looked  quite 
distinguished  as  she  walked  up  the  aisle  on  Dr.  Burford's 
arm. 

Everything  went  off  well ;  and  as  father  and  I  drove 
home,  we  agreed  that  we  had  never  seen  a  happier 
couple. 

"  Happiness  is  a  great  beautifier,  Gipsy,"  he  observed  ; 
"  Mrs.  Pelham  will  be  a  younger  woman  than  Miss  Red- 
ford  ever  was  " ;  and  then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  kind 
way.     "  You  looked  like  a  bride  yourself  in  your  white 

3" 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

chiffon ;  it  is  a  very  pretty  frock,  little  girl,  and  quite 
worthy  of  the  wearer."  I  blushed  with  pleasure  at  his 
evident  admiration.  I  did  so  love  father  to  notice  things. 
I  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  my  appearance,  for 
I  wanted  Reddy  and  Helen  to  be  pleased.  Sydney  had 
been  greatly  impressed — "  you  are  really  quite  like  a 
dream,  Githa;  your  frock  is  perfectly  sweet,  and  so  are 
those  Malmaison  pinks,"  with  an  admiring  glance  at  my 
shower  bouquet.  But  for  all  their  loving  praise  my  heart 
was  sad  as  I  listened  to  the  solemn  words  of  the  marriage 
service. 

"  For  better,  for  worse," — no  wonder  father  hated 
weddings ;  how  could  he  have  borne  to  listen  to  those 
words !  It  was  at  such  moments  I  envied  Sydney  for  her 
absolute  loyalty  to  my  mother:  I  who  was  her  own  child 
doubted  and  criticised,  but  Sydney's  warm  heart  had 
nothing  but  love  and  tenderness  for  her  adopted  mother. 

I  knew  from  father  that  Thurston  had  taken  up  his 
residence  in  Gresham  Terrace  and  had  begun  work  at 
the  Bank ;  it  was  therefore  not  surprising  when  one  morn- 
ing as  we  were  riding  home  to  a  late  breakfast  we  over- 
took him  strolling  along  the  Embankment  with  Ben  at 
his  heels.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  but 
at  the  sound  of  our  horses'  hoofs  he  turned,  and  Sydney, 
who  was  nearest  him,  reined  in  her  horse. 

Thurston  looked  rather  pale,  but  there  was  a  flash  of 
joy  in  his  eyes  as  Sydney  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  As 
usual,  she  was  perfectly  natural  and  simple. 

"  We  have  had  such  a  lovely  ride,  Thurston,  and  such 
a  canter  in  Rotten  Row !  Is  not  Mamzelle  a  pretty 
creature !  and  she  goes  so  beautifully  too,  almost  as  well 
as  Bab.  Oh,  there  is  dear  old  Ben — see  he  recognises 
us,  Githa," 

I  did  not  hear  Thurston's  reply,  for  at  that  moment 
312 


SCHOOL  OF  ART  NEEDLEWORK 

Bab  began  dancing  in  an  absurd  way.  We  were  only  a 
few  yards  from  St.  Olave's  Lodge,  and  she  was  impatient 
for  her  sugar.  Father  was  absorbed  in  watching  us.  And 
so  Thurston  got  his  innings ;  for  when  at  last  Bab  con- 
sented to  leave  her  four  feet  on  the  ground  again,  I  saw 
Thurston  still  leaning  against  Mamzelle's  glossy  brown 
flank,  and  talking  in  a  low,  intent  voice  to  Sydney. 

"  Come,  young  ladies,"  observed  father  in  a  loud, 
peremptory  voice,  "  if  I  am  to  have  any  breakfast  at  all 
we  must  go  in  at  once.  I  am  sorry  I  can't  ask  you  to 
join  us,  Wilde ;  but  I  expect  you  have  had  yours  long 
ago,"  and  Thurston  flushed  a  little  as  he  assented  to 
this.  Of  course,  he  knew  why  father  would  not  invite 
him  to  St.  Olave's  Lodge. 

Sydney  was  very  silent  during  breakfast,  but  when 
we  were  alone  together  she  confessed  that  the  unex- 
pected meeting  had  made  them  both  very  happy. 

"  Thurston  said  so  more  than  once,"  she  observed, 
with  a  pretty  blush.  "  He  was  just  walking  past  the  house, 
but  he  never  expected  to  see  any  one.  Do  you  know, 
Githa,  he  and  Ben  were  walking  up  and  down  the 
Embankment  for  such  a  time  last  night,  until  all  the 
windows  were  dark.  He  seemed  quite  disappointed  when 
he  heard  I  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house." 

I  would  not  have  smiled  for  the  world  as  she  said 
this ;  her  young  lover's  devotion  was  evidently  a  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  thing  in  Sydney's  eyes.  The  remem- 
brance of  that  meeting  made  her  happy  for  days.  And 
I  quite  understood  the  reason  why  she  always  stood  so 
long  on  the  balcony  before  we  retired  to  bed ;  I  knew 
she  was  straining  her  eyes  in  the  darkness  to  catch  sight 
of  a  tall,  slim  figure,  and  a  small  white  body  revolving 
round  it.  Of  course,  I  never  asked  any  questions,  but  I 
certainly  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief  one  evening, 

313 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  there  was  a  little  satisfied  smile  on  her  lips  when  she 
came  back  to  us.  I  never  could  find  out  if  father  was 
aware  of  these  little  episodes,  but  he  certainly  took  no 
notice. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  I  had  an  unexpected 
encounter.  Mother  had  asked  Sydney  to  do  a  little 
commission  for  her  at  the  Kensington  School  of  Art 
Needlework,  so  we  drove  there  one  afternoon.  The 
young  lady  who  waited  on  us  found  some  difficulty  in 
matching  the  silks,  so  I  left  them  and  wandered  into  an 
inner  room  where  there  were  some  fine  old  cabinets  and 
carved  cupboards.  I  was  just  examining  one  when  I 
heard  my  name  pronounced,  and  turning  hastily  I  found 
myself  face  to  face  with  Rhona. 

"  Oh,  Githa,"  she  said  in  an  agitated  voice,  "  I  saw 
you  and  Sydney  pass  just  now,  but  I  was  behind  the 
screen  and  you  neither  of  you  noticed  me." 

"  Are  you  alone,  Rhona  ?  " 

"  Hush,  don't  speak  so  loudly — no,  of  course  not. 
Aunt  Laura  is  in  the  room  next  to  this.  She  is  buying 
a  fire-screen  ;  but  she  never  can  make  up  her  mind  quickly, 
so  I  said  I  was  tired  and  would  sit  down.  There  is 
plenty  of  room  for  you  on  this  bench,  Githa,  and  I  do  so 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

I  looked  at  her  pityingly  as  I  sat  down.  No  one 
would  say  that  Rhona  looked  almost  pretty  now :  her 
face  seemed  smaller  and  more  insignificant,  and  her  col- 
ouring more  washed  out ;  her  blue  eyes  had  lost  their 
soft  brightness ;  she  looked  languid  and  fatigued  and 
far  from  strong. 

"  I  thought  you  were  all  going  to  Cornwall,  Rhona?  " 

"  Not  for  another  three  weeks,"  she  returned  listlessly. 
"  I  have  only  come  up  with  Aunt  Laura  for  a  day  or  two's 

314 


SCHOOL  OF  ART  NEEDLEWORK 

shopping.  I  tried  to  get  out  of  it,  but  mother  said  it 
would  do  me  good  " ;  and  Rhona  sighed  in  an  oppressed 
way.  As  usual,  she  had  to  submit  to  the  will  of  others ; 
even  her  mother,  who  loved  her  devotedly,  treated  her 
like  a  child. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  Bayfield  for  August,  Rhona." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so ;  that  will  be  nice  for  Sydney  " ; 
then  her  voice  changing  to  earnestness,  "  Githa,  dear,  I 
have  been  so  longing  to  see  one  of  you ;  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you,  but  I  never  could  find  an  opportunity.  I 
tried  once  to  say  something  to  Thurston,"  and  here  a  faint 
colour  suffused  her  face ;  "  but  father  came  between  us 
and  I  had  to  give  it  up." 

I  nodded,  for  I  had  heard  this  before, 

"  Oh,  they  are  so  unjust  to  him,"  she  went  on. 
"  Father  storms  and  rages  if  any  one  mentions  his  name ; 
he  says  such  cruel  things  about  him  sometimes,  and  once 
he  sent  me  out  of  the  room  because  I  cried  and  said  he 
was  too  hard  on  him." 

"  Poor  Rhona,"  I  observed  pityingly,  for  I  knew  that 
she  was  not  exaggerating  matters.  I  was  too  well  aware 
of  the  Colonel's  choleric  and  imperious  temper ;  he  would 
resent  fiercely  the  slight  to  his  daughter.  Rhona's  home 
life  would  certainly  be  far  from  comfortable  under  the 
present  circumstances. 

"  I  cannot  bear  them  to  say  such  things,"  she  con- 
tinued, clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  in  a  helpless 
sort  of  way.  "  If  he  made  mistakes,  I  know  he  never 
meant  to  be  unkind." 

"  But,  Rhona  dear,  we  all,  even  Sydney,  think  that 
Thurston  has  acted  very  wrongly.  I  am  sure  that  he 
thinks  so  himself  and  is  very,  very  sorry.  He  had  no 
right  to  make  you  think  that  he  was  in  love  with  you, 
when  all  the  time  it  was  Sydney." 

315 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  He  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind,"  she  reiterated  in  a 
distressed  voice ;  "  and  after  all  I  was  more  to  blame 
than  he.  I  wanted  to  believe  it,  and  I  tried  to  shut 
my  eyes  and  not  notice  things,"  and  here  the  poor  child 
drooped  her  head.  "  I  ought  not  to  have  imagined  for  a 
moment  that  he  could  care  for  me  when  Sydney  was  so 
sweet  and  engaging — how  could  he  help  loving  her ! — 
and  yet  they  all  treat  him  as  though  he  had  committed  a 
crime." 

"  But,  Rhona,  if  he  has  made  you  unhappy  " — then 
the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  my  own  fault,"  she  whispered.  "  I  ought  not 
to  have  let  myself  care  for  him  until  I  was  sure,  and  I 
deserve  to  suffer  for  my  foolishness.  Mother  says  a 
girl  ought  not  to  give  herself  away  until  a  man  tells  her 
that  he  loves  her,  but,"  with  a  heartbreaking  little  smile, 
"  I  don't  see  how  one  is  to  help  it." 

Neither  did  I,  but  I  would  not  say  so  to  Rhona. 

"  He  was  so  kind  to  me,"  she  went  on,  "  kinder  than 
any  one  I  ever  knew ;  but  I  have  been  thinking  things 
over,  and  I  see  now  that  he  only  meant  to  be  brotherly, 
and  that  his  manner  was  quite  different  to  Sydney.  I 
think  he  liked  me  in  a  way,  as  though  I  were  a  little 
sister ;  he  used  to  tell  me  things  and  try  to  help  me." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  was  fond  of  you,  Rhona." 

"  Yes,  and  I  did  so  long  to  say  a  comforting  word 
to  him,  and  to  tell  him  how  sorry  I  was  for  all  this 
trouble.  Githa,  dear,  would  you  give  him  a  message — 
•would  you  tell  him  how  grieved  I  am  that  his  grand- 
mother should  treat  him  so  unkindly,  and  that  I  never 
have  and  never  shall  blame  him,  and  that  I  shall  pray 
for  his  happiness  with  all  my  heart, — will  you  tell  him 
this  ?  "  Then  I  assured  her  very  gravely  that  Thurston 
should  have  her  message. 

316 


SCHOOL  OF  ART  NEEDLEWORK 

She  gave  me  a  grateful  kiss  and  hurried  on.  "  And 
dear  Sydney,  give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  that  she 
must  be  good  to  him  and  not  keep  him  long  waiting  for 
his  answer.  Something  tells  me  that  she  has  refused 
him.  I  can  hear  nothing,  but  if  she  has  done  this,  it  is 
very  wrong,  for  Thurston  has  given  up  everything  for 
her  sake." 

I  told  Rhona  quietly  that  her  surmise  had  been  correct, 
that  Sydney  had  refused  him,  as  she  was  unwilling  to 
accept  such  a  sacrifice,  but  that  no  one  had  a  doubt  that 
Thurston  would  in  time  induce  her  to  give  him  a  different 
answer.  She  listened  to  me  in  silence,  and  then  I  went 
on  to  tell  her  of  Thurston's  new  employment  and  his 
residence  in  Gresham  Terrace.  I  knew  she  was  hungry 
for  news,  and  that  it  was  cruel  to  leave  her  in  ignorance ; 
and  again  she  thanked  me  in  the  most  touching  way. 

"  You  have  done  me  good,  Githa,"  she  said,  squeezing 
my  hand.  "  How  thankful  I  am  that  I  have  met  you. 
I  shall  not  be  quite  so  unhappy  now.  Perhaps  when 
father  sees  me  a  little  brighter  he  may  be  less  angry 
with  poor  Thurston ;  but  whatever  he  says,  I  shall  never 
marry  any  one  now — never — never.  Hush  !  I  hear  Aunt 
Laura's  voice.  I  will  go  and  meet  her,  and  perhaps, 
after  all,  she  will  not  see  you." 

I  had  no  desire  to  encounter  Miss  Etheridge,  so  I 
slipped  out  just  in  time,  for  Sydney,  who  had  finished  her 
business,  was  come  in  search  of  me.  She  looked  rather 
mystified  when  I  hurried  her  away.  The  carriage  was 
at  some  distance,  and  Fenwick  did  not  see  us,  but  as 
we  stood  with  our  backs  to  the  entrance  I  heard  Miss 
Etheridge's  rather  high-pitched  voice  behind  us.  "  Don't 
look  round,"  T  whispered  in  Sydney's  ear,  and  then  she 
understood. 

"  Your  mother  will  be  delighted  with  the  screen, 
317 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Rhona,"  she  was  saying;  "it  is  a  perfect  beauty,  and 
not  dear,  in  my  opinion.  But  I  was  sorry  to  keep  you 
so  long  waiting.  We  will  have  some  tea  now,  for  you 
are  looking  dreadfully  pale,  my  love,"  and  here  Miss 
Etheridge  signalled  a  hansom. 

Sydney  looked  at  me  pleadingly.  "  That  was  Rhona. 
Do  let  us  run  back  and  speak  to  her." 

But  I  took  firm  hold  of  her  arm.  "  Not  for  worlds. 
We  should  only  get  Rhona  into  trouble.  Wait  until  we 
are  in  the  carriage  and  I  will  tell  you  about  her  " ;  and 
Sydney  listened  to  my  long  story  with  breathless  atten- 
tion, and  I  could  see  that  she  was  much  touched  by 
Rhona's  message. 

"  How  unselfish  she  is,"  she  returned.  "  I  think  she 
puts  us  all  to  shame.  Poor  dear  Rhona !  If  I  were  half 
as  good,"  and  there  were  tears  in  Sydney's  eyes. 

It  was  some  little  time  before  I  found  an  opportunity 
of  giving  Thurston  her  message ;  but  one  evening  when 
I  was  returning  from  Aunt  Cosie's  I  met  him.  Sydney 
had  not  accompanied  me.  She  had  a  headache,  and 
thought  it  better  to  remain  at  home. 

Thurston  turned  back  with  me,  and  I  told  him  at 
once  about  my  interview  with  Rhona,  and  I  could  see 
how  interested  he  was.  "  I  was  quite  sure  that  she  wanted 
to  speak  to  me  that  Sunday  in  the  church  porch,"  he 
observed,  "  only  the  old  fellow  pushed  himself  between 
us."  But  when  I  had  delivered  the  message,  he  was  so 
silent,  and  there  was  such  a  pained  look  on  his  face,  that 
I  did  not  like  to  speak.  But  presently  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "  If  you  ever  have  the  opportunity,  Githa,  I  should 
like  you  to  thank  Rhona  for  that  message.  It  was  gen- 
erous and  dear  of  her  to  send  it.  Tell  her  that  though  she 
has  forgiven  me,  I  shall  never  forgive  myself,"  and  he 
seemed  so  upset  that  I  thought  it  better  to  say  no  more. 

318 


SCHOOL  OF  ART  NEEDLEWORK 

I  often  wondered  if  Mr.  Carlyon  would  keep  his 
promise  of  calling  at  St,  Olave's  Lodge,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  middle  of  July  that  we  saw  him. 

He  came  one  afternoon  as  we  were  sitting  with  father 
in  the  drawing-room.  It  was  an  intensely  hot  afternoon, 
but  there  was  a  little  breeze  from  the  river,  so  I  had  told 
Hallett  to  bring  tea  there.  With  the  zeal  of  a  young 
housekeeper  I  had  ordered  iced  coffee  as  well  as  tea,  and 
father  was  just  lecturing  me  playfully  on  my  extrava- 
gance when   Mr.   Carylon  was  announced. 

To  this  moment  I  am  ashamed  to  remember  how 
exceedingly  shy  I  felt.  I  only  hoped  that  no  one  else 
noticed  it.  I  could  see  at  once  that  father  was  strongly 
attracted  by  our  visitor,  and  somehow  I  never  saw  Mr. 
Carlyon  to  greater  advantage.  He  was  always  very  dis- 
tinguished-looking, he  carried  himself  so  well,  and  there 
was  such  ease  of  manner  and  such  an  air  of  good-breed- 
ing about  him,  that  he  seldom  failed  to  impress  strangers. 
Father  received  him  most  cordially,  when  Mr.  Carlyon 
observed  pleasantly  that  he  had  been  anxious  to  make  his 
acquaintance.  Father  returned  in  quite  a  nice  way  that 
he  had  heard  so  much  of  him  from  his  daughter  that  he 
could  reciprocate  that  wish.  Mr.  Carlyon  looked  across 
at  me  with  his  kind  smile. 

"  Miss  Darnell  and  I  are  good  friends."  Then,  "  By 
the  bye,  my  little  people  have  entrusted  me  with  all  sorts 
of  messages,"  and  then  he  drew  forth  from  his  breast 
pocket  a  small  parcel  tied  with  red  worsted.  It  proved 
to  be  a  pen-wiper,  in  the  shape  of  an  attenuated  and 
deformed  butterfly,  with  "  Girlie,"  worked  in  green  floss- 
silk  on  pink  flannel,  and  speckled  all  over  with  curious 
green  dots.  "  I  hope  you  admire  my  little  girl's  design," 
he  observed.  "  I  believe  Stella  expended  hours  of  toil 
over  that  pen-wiper.     I  was  to  explain  to  you  that  the 

319 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

dots  are  kisses,  and  that  they  are  from  Cyril  as  well  as 
Stella." 

"  Oh,  the  darling !  "  I  exclaimed,  as  I  raised  the 
grotesque  object  to  my  lips. 

"They  begged  me  to  tell  you  that  they  intend  to 
find  you  some  lovely  shells  when  they  go  over  to  Bognor. 
I  believe  Peace  has  promised  that  they  are  to  spend  a 
day  there.  There  was  a  good  deal  more  which  has 
escaped  my  memory.  They  are  wild  with  delight  at  the 
idea  of  going  to  Binstead.  As  Peace  says  in  her  quaint 
way,  '  They  are  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind  until  she 
tucks  them  up  in  bed.'  " 

I  do  not  know  why  all  this  talk  about  the  twins  made 
me  feel  rather  dull,  but  I  could  not  help  owning  to  Mr. 
Carlyon  how  much  I  should  miss  them  when  I  went 
down  to  Bayfield.  He  seemed  to  like  to  hear  me  say  it, 
and  then  he  turned  to  father. 

"  My  little  ones  are  much  attached  to  Miss  Darnell. 
Stella  informed  me  yesterday  that  '  Girlie '  was  the 
nicest  big  playfellow  they  had  ever  had,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  your  humble  servant.  But  it  was  not  quite  kind 
of  Stella  to  ignore  you,  Miss  Herbert." 

"  Oh,  the  children  care  much  more  for  Githa,"  she 
returned,  smiling,  "but  I  am  not  jealous,  Mr.  Carlyon, 
and  I  have  plenty  of  attention  when  Githa  is  absent." 

Mr.  Carlyon  seemed  to  enjoy  his  iced  coffee,  which 
he  said  was  an  admirable  idea  in  hot  weather ;  and  then 
he  and  father  began  to  talk  about  the  Austrian  Tyrol 
and  the  Passion  Play  that  Mr.  Carlyon  had  seen  the 
previous  year,  and  their  talk  was  so  interesting  that 
Sydney  and  I  listened  with  rapt  attention.  They  had  not 
half  exhausted  the  subject  when  the  dressing-bell  rang, 
and  Mr.  Carlyon  rose,  with  an  exclamation  at  the  lateness 
of  the  hour.     To   my  surprise,   and   also   to   my  great 

320 


SCHOOL  OF  ART  NEEDLEWORK 

pleasure,  father  asked  him  to  dine  with  us  the  following 
evening,  that  they  might  finish  their  conversation,  and  he 
accepted  this  invitation  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

"  It  is  au  revoir,  then,"  he  said  in  quite  a  pleased 
voice  as  he  shook  hands  with  me,  and  I  said  rather  shyly 
that  I  was  very  glad.  Father  went  downstairs  with 
him ;  but  when  he  came  up  a  few  minutes  later  and  found 
me  alone,  he  told  me  that  Mr.  Carlyon  had  asked  Thurston 
to  dine  with  him  at  his  hotel. 

"  He  says  he  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  talk  with  me 
about  him,  so  I  am  glad — aren't  you,  Gipsy? — that  I 
asked  him  to  dinner."  And  then,  pinching  my  cheek 
gently,  "  I  think  your  vicar  a  cut  above  the  average.  He 
is  a  gentlemanly  and  most  agreeable  man ;  but  it  is  easy 
to  see  he  has  had  trouble  " ;  and  then  father  begged  me 
to  hurry  up  or  the  second  gong  would  sound. 


21  321 


XXXIII 

"TITANIA" 


Shall  I  forget  on  this  side  of  the  grave? 
I  promise  nothing:  yon  must  wait  and  see, 

Patient  and  brave. 
(O  my  soul,  watch  with  him  and  he  with  me.) 

Christina  Rossetti. 

There  is  a  homely  old  saying  that  new  brooms  sweep 
clean.  I  was  very  particular  about  the  menu  for  the 
next  day,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  found  it  somewhat  difficult 
to  satisfy  me.  Indeed,  she  hinted  that  my  ideas  were 
rather  extravagant.  "  I  would  not  have  an  ice-pudding 
if  I  were  you,  Miss  Githa,"  she  observed  with  the 
familiarity  of  an  old  servant ;  "  there  is  only  one  gentle- 
man coming,  and  it  has  such  a  company  look."  But  I 
remembered  Mr.  Carlyon's  appreciation  of  the  iced  coffee, 
and  carried  my  point. 

I  had  rather  an  argument,  too,  with  Hallett  about 
the  table  decorations.  He  was,  as  usual,  a  little  opinion- 
ative  in  these  matters,  and  evidently  disapproved  of  my 
scheme ;  but  I  put  on  what  Sydney  called  my  princess 
air;  and  was  exceedingly  firm,  so  he  was  obliged  to  give 
way. 

Father  grumbled  a  little  because  we  could  not  ask 
Thurston  to  join  us.  "  There  would  be  no  harm  in  inviting 
the  lad,"  he  said  quite  testily,  "  and  I  don't  see  why  we 
are  to  act  as  Miss  Herbert's  jailers.  When  two  well- 
conducted,  sensible  young  people  are  in  love  with  each 

322 


TITANIA 

other,  there  is  not  the  sHghtest  use  in  trying  to  keep 
them  apart.  Doesn't  Shakespeare  say,  '  Fire  that  is 
closest  kept  burns  most  of  all '  ?  "  And  then  a  wicked 
twinkle  came  into  his  eyes — "  Oh,  Gip,  my  dear,  '  More 
water  glideth  by  the  mill  than  wots  the  miller  of.'  If 
we  gave  Romeo  a  seat  at  the  dinner-table  we  should  not 
have  Juliet  so  often  on  the  balcony  " ;  and  then  I  knew 
that  father  was  not  as  blind  as  we  supposed. 

I  ventured  to  hint  something  of  this  in  my  next  letter 
to  mother,  but  I  found  it  was  no  use ;  she  only  reiterated 
her  wish  that  there  should  be  as  little  intercourse  as  pos- 
sible. "  Of  course,  we  cannot  always  avoid  accidental 
meetings,"  she  went  on,  "  but  for  the  present  I  would 
much  rather  that  Thurston  keeps  away  from  St.  Olave's 
Lodge ;  he  is  on  his  probation,  and  I  want  to  be  quite  sure 
that  he  is  in  earnest  before  he  has  the  opportunity  of 
renewing  his  offer." 

Father  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  I  read  this  para- 
graph to  him,  and  then  he  said  rather  a  bitter  thing, — 

"  So  you  tried  to  make  your  mother  change  her  mind. 
You  are  very  young,  Gipsy,  or  you  would  know  better." 

Of  course,  I  took  father's  side  in  the  matter ;  but,  all 
the  same,  I  knew  mother  was  not  unreasonable  in  the 
view  she  held,  though  her  discipline  was  a  little  too  brac- 
ing for  my  taste.  She  wanted  two  young  creatures  to 
be  perfectly  sure  of  themselves  and  of  each  other,  and  she 
desired  their  happiness  and  ultimate  well-being  so  ear- 
nestly that  she  could  not  brook  the  idea  of  any  present 
enjoyment  marring  it.  In  her  stern,  puritan  creed  happi- 
ness was  often  perfected  through  a  certain  degree  of 
suffering  and  endurance.  "  If  they  cannot  bear  a  short 
period  of  waiting,  they  are  acting  like  undisciplined  chil- 
dren," she  said  once.  "  But  I  can  trust  Sydney ;  she  has 
never  disappointed  me  yet." 

323 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

I  am  quite  sure  that  Sydney  tried  to  carry  out 
mother's  wishes  most  loyally,  and  that  it  never  struck  her 
that  a  pass'ng  wave  of  her  handkerchief  in  the  darkness 
or  a  whispered  good-night  to  some  one  standing  under 
the  balcony  would  be  infringing  them  in  the  faintest 
degree.  But  as  time  went  on  she  once  or  twice  expressed 
surprise  that  we  so  often  came  upon  Thurston. 

"  It  is  so  very  odd,"  she  said  innocently;  "it  is  just 
as  though  he  knew  all  we  meant  to  do  every  day — but, 
of  course,  that  is  impossible."  But  though  I  agreed 
with  her  that  it  was  odd,  I  kept  my  suspicions  to  myself. 
Gresham  Terrace  was  not  very  far  off.  If  Thurston 
wished  to  take  an  early  stroll  on  the  Embankment  or  in 
Battersea  Park  he  would  certainly  pass  our  stables,  and 
could  easily  find  out  anything  he  wished  to  know ;  and 
so  it  was  that  if  we  rode  out  early  we  were  sure  to  have 
a  fleeting  glimpse  of  Thurston  and  his  faithful  satellite 
Ben ;  and  once  when  father  had  to  ride  a  little  farther, 
on  some  errand,  he  crossed  the  road  and  helped  us  both  to 
alight  from  our  saddles. 

And  even  when  father  decided  on  a  later  ride,  more 
than  once  Sydney's  knight  was  leaning  over  the  park 
palings,  evidently  watching  for  our  cavalcade.  Some- 
times father  stopped  and  spoke  to  him,  and  of  course 
we  had  to  stop  too.  I  thought  Thurston  looked  wonder- 
fully handsome,  only  a  little  pale,  as  though  July  heat 
and  confinement  were  trying  him. 

Of  course,  he  found  out  the  church  we  attended,  and 
was  always  in  his  place  when  we  arrived.  Sometimes 
he  was  so  near  that  we  could  hear  his  voice  in  the 
responses — Thurston  had  rather  a  nice  voice, — and  at 
the  close  of  the  service  there  was  generally  an  opportunity 
for  a  look  and  word  in  the  porch ;  but  father  would  walk 
on  quite  calmly,  leaving  us  to  follow  him. 

324 


TITANIA 

But  to  return  to  our  little  dinner.  If  I  had  disturbed 
Mrs.  Kennedy's  mind  with  my  extravagant  menu,  I  cer- 
tainly shocked  Sydney  by  wearing  the  white  chiffon  dress 
which  had  been  ordered  for  the  wedding ;  and  even 
Mardie  seemed  to  disapprove. 

"  Oh,  Githa !  "  exclaimed  Sydney,  when  she  came  into 
my  room  with  some  flowers  she  had  been  arranging, 
"  your  lovely  dress, — why,  it  is  far  too  good  to  wear 
to-night.  I  have  put  on  my  blue  muslin,  because  I  knew 
only  Mr.  Carlyon  was  coming." 

"  But  you  look  very  nice,"  I  returned  hastily.  "  and 
your  frock  is  quite  new.  I  don't  want  flowers  to-night," 
I  continued;  "those  white  rose-buds  will  just  suit  your 
dress,  Syd,  and  Mardie  will  pin  them  on  for  you." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  don't  want  them,  dear?  "  she 
asked,  surprised ;  but  Mardie  answered  for  me. 

"  Miss  Githa  looks  fit  for  a  ball-room  now.  Miss 
Herbert,  and  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  for  her  new 
bodice  to  be  spoiled  with  flower  stains  " ;  and  then  I  knew 
that  Mardie  too  disapproved  of  my  extravagance.  But 
I  did  not  repent  one  bit  when  father  called  me  Titania  and 
held  me  out  at  arm's  length  to  admire  me ;  and  I  am 
afraid  I  repented  still  less  when,  during  dinner,  I  saw 
Mr.  Carlyon  look  at  me  in  rather  an  intent  way,  and  in 
my  foolish  vanity  I  hoped  that  he  thought  I  looked  nice ; 
but  I  felt  rather  perplexed  when  a  sad  expression  crossed 
his  face,  and  for  a  few  minutes  he  seemed  quite  abstracted. 

But  it  was  a  delightful  evening,  and  to  my  satisfaction 
every  one  praised  the  ice-pudding.  Mr.  Carlyon  and 
father  talked  as  though  they  were  old  friends.  It  was 
really  astonishing  how  much  they  seemed  to  have  in 
common ;  they  had  both  been  abroad  a  great  deal. 

Mr.  Carlyon  took  a  deep  interest  in  ecclesiastical 
architecture,  and  had  seen  all  the  most  noted  cathedrals 

325 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

in  Europe.  Father  had  seen  less,  hnt  had  read  a  good 
deal  on  the  subject,  and  as  he  delighted  in  pictures  and 
works  of  art,  they  found  a  common  ground  of  interest. 

I  could  have  listened  to  them  for  hours,  but  I  knew 
too  well  my  duties  as  a  hostess ;  but  I  told  Sydney,  as  we 
sipped  our  coffee  on  the  balcony,  that  I  intended  to  study 
architecture.  "  Father  has  the  loveliest  books  and  pic- 
tures in  the  library,"  I  went  on,  "  and  I  know  he  would 
be  charmed  to  direct  my  studies.  There  is  some  talk 
of  our  going  to  Rome  next  winter ;  it  is  a  dream  of  ours, 
and  I  should  like  to  fit  myself  to  be  his  companion." 
But  though  this  was  quite  true  as  far  as  it  went,  I  was 
not  perfectly  honest,  for  why  did  my  desire  to  study 
architecture  only  date  from  this  evening? 

Father  stayed  downstairs  longer  than  usual,  but  I 
knew  they  were  talking  about  Thurston.  They  came  up 
presently,  and  we  had  some  music,  and  Sydney  and  I  both 
sang. 

It  was  rather  a  warm  night,  and  when  I  had  finished 
my  duet  with  Sydney  I  went  out  again  on  the  balcony 
to  get  cool.  Mr.  Carlyon  followed  me,  and  as  we  stood 
looking  at  the  river  and  the  lights  on  the  Embankment, 
I  caught  sight  of  a  dark  figure  moving  slowly  away. 
Of  course  it  was  Thurston ;  the  poor  boy  had  been  listen- 
ing to  the  songs.  Mr.  Carlyon  had  not  noticed  him.  He 
seemed  rapt  in  thought  as  he  stood  beside  me.  Then  he 
turned  to  me  a  little  abruptly,  and  there  was  still  the  same 
sad  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  you  have  been  reminding  me  of  some 
one  all  the  evening,  Miss  Darnell  " ;  he  spoke  in  a  low 
tone,    full    of    repressed    emotion. 

"  I!  Oh,  do  you  mean  that  I  am  like  my  mother?  " 
But  he  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  not  to-night.  I  was  alluding  to  my  wife — my 
326 


TITANIA 

dear  Doreen.     She  was  very  young  when  we  married, 

and  as  a  girl "  then  he  stopped,  as  though  unable  to 

go  on  for  the  moment. 

Lady  Doreen !  I  reminded  him  of  her !  A  curious 
thrill  seemed  to  pass  through  me  when  Mr.  Carlyon 
said  this. 

"  I  saw  her  picture  once,"  I  returned  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Stella  took  me  to  see  it.  I  thought  she  looked  so  lovely, 
and  her  expression  was  so  sweet." 

"  She  was  very  beautiful  when  she  was  young,"  he 
replied  in  the  same  subdued  tone.  "  When  I  said  just 
now  that  you  reminded  me  of  her,  I  did  not  mean  that 
there  was  a  close  resemblance ;  it  was  something  in  voice 
and  manner.  One  cannot  exactly  define  these  fleeting 
and  vague  impressions,  but  they  have  come  to  me  before 
when  I  have  been  with  you.  But  to-night — to-night — 
it  might  have  been  Doreen  herself  who  walked  into  the 
room." 

"  How  strange !  "  I  almost  whispered,  and  indeed  I 
hardly  knew  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  that  he  had 
told  me  this,  for  it  pained  me  to  think  that  I  had  brought 
that  sad  look  to  his  eyes. 

"  There  was  a  party  at  the  Castle,"  he  went  on,  "  and 
she  wore  a  dress  like  that — all  white  and  flufify,  and  a 
row  of  pearls  round  her  throat.  We  were  just  engaged, 
and  it  was  her  seventeenth  birthday,  and  I  had  taken  her 
some  flowers.  I  heard  your  father  call  you  Titania  this 
evening.    That  was  the  name  I  gave  her  that  night," 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  for  a  moment — it  was  so  close, 
and  I  was  so  sorry  for  him ;  but  I  was  somewhat  discon- 
certed when  he  detained  it.  But  I  was  sure  he  understood 
what  I  meant. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  know  I  have  your 
sympathy,  and  indeed  T  have  needed  it.     Last  Sunday 

327 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

was  the  anniversary  of  her  death.  It  is  just  three  years 
— three  long  years ;  but  what  is  time  in  such  circum- 
stances ?  '  We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs,'  as 
Bailey  says." 

He  still  kept  my  hand,  but  I  did  not  like  to  draw  it 
away.     Probably  he  had  forgotten  he  was  holding  it. 

"  She  was  young  when  she  died,"  he  went  on  in  the 
same  even  voice,  "  and  at  first  she  could  not  reconcile 
herself  to  the  thought.  It  seemed  hard  that  she  should 
leave  her  little  children  and  me.  I  thought  my  heart 
would  have  broken  when  I  saw  how  unhappy  she  was, 
and  then  the  evening  before  her  death,  thank  God,  the 
cloud  lifted,  and  she  looked  at  me  with  her  old  sunny 
smile. 

"  '  I  am  not  afraid  now,  Paul.  I  know  my  Heavenly 
Father  will  take  care  of  you  and  the  children,  and  though 
He  is  parting  us  now,  we  shall  be  together  for  eternity.'  " 

I  could  not  speak ;  I  was  so  profoundly  touched  by 
this  sacred  confidence.  I  was  trying  to  keep  back  the 
tears.  Sydney  was  singing  a  pathetic  little  German  song, 
about  a  peasant  girl  who  had  lost  her  lover  on  the  wed- 
ding eve.  Sydney's  clear,  sweet  tones  were  thrilling 
with  emotion.  The  same  dark  figure  was  pacing  up  and 
down — a  small  white  body  with  short  legs  followed  it 
closely. 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  observed  Mr.  Carlyon,  rousing 
himself.  "  Forgive  me  for  saddening  you,  but  the  impulse 
to  speak  was  so  strong.  Sometimes  one  needs  sympathy, 
and  you  have  given  it  without  stint  or  measure."  What 
could  he  mean,  when  I  had  scarcely  spoken  a  word? 
"  God  bless  you !  "  And  then  before  I  knew  what  he 
was  going  to  do.  he  lifted  my  hand  to  his  lips  and  turned 
slowly  away,  and  I  heard  him  tell  father  that  he  must 
hurry,  as  it  was  far  later  than  he  had  guessed. 

328 


TITANIA 

I  stayed  out  for  a  few  minutes  to  cool  my  burning 
cheeks,  and  as  the  front  door  opened,  I  saw  Thurston 
retrace  his  steps  and  join  Mr.  Carlyon. 

I  thought  father  looked  at  me  a  little  curiously  when 
I  went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  Sydney  was  putting 
away  her  songs  in  the  portfolio. 

"  You  and  Carlyon  found  plenty  to  talk  about,  Gipsy ; 
but  then  Titania  always  haunts  the  moonlight.  You  made 
a  charming  little  hostess  to-night,  darling.  Carlyon  is 
a  man  after  my  own  heart,"  he  continued.  "  He  is  unus- 
ually broad-minded  and  wide  in  his  sympathies  for  a 
parson.  I  hope  he  will  soon  repeat  his  visit  " ;  and  then 
father  bade  me  good-night. 

Sydney  did  not  go  out  on  the  balcony  as  usual — I 
am  afraid  we  gave  her  no  opportunity ;  so  I  made  amends 
by  telling  her  that  Thurston  had  been  listening  to  her 
singing,  and  she  blushed  and  dimpled  with  pleasure. 

"  I  thought  he  would,  and  I  sang  all  his  favourite 
songs,"  she  whispered ;  and  then  she  ran  out  of  the  room. 

But  it  was  long  before  I  could  compose  myself  to 
sleep  that  night.  Mr,  Carlyon's  unexpected  confidence, 
his  tone,  his  manner,  had  moved  me  strangely.  Why 
had  he  been  so  sure  of  my  sympathy  when  I  had  said  so 
little?  Could  that  impulsive  touch  of  his  hand  have 
spoken  for  me?  I  felt  a  little  distressed.  Would  he  think 
me  forward  or  unmaidenly,  or  only  young  and  childish? 
But  something  told  me  he  had  not  been  displeased.  "  If 
it  had  been  any  one  else,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  but  with 
him  it  does  not  matter.  He  is  so  wise ;  he  always  under- 
stands.   But  I  wonder,  I  wonder,  why  he  did  that?  " 

Mr.  Carlyon  went  back  to  Bayfield  the  next  day,  but 
though  he  called  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge  a  fortnight  later, 
when  he  came  up  to  town  en  route  for  the  Tyrol,  we  were 
all  out,  so  he  only  left  his  card  and  inquired  very  kindly 

329 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

after  every  one.     I  thought  father  seemed  sorry  to  miss 
him. 

I  was  feeling  very  disappointed  about  Sydney  just 
then.  After  all,  she  was  not  going  back  to  Bayfield  with 
me.  Aunt  Cosie  had  invited  her  to  accompany  her  to 
Cromer.  "  Of  course  I  knew  there  was  no  chance  of 
getting  you,  Githa,"  she  observed,  when  she  talked  the 
plan  over  with  me.  "  You  are  in  far  too  much  request, 
my  dear ;  but  as  I  need  a  young  companion,  and  Miss 
Herbert  has  taken  my  fancy,  I  intend  to  ask  her.  I 
shall  probably  not  return  for  six  or  seven  weeks,  as  there 
is  a  great  deal  to  be  done  in  the  house." 

My  heart  sank  a  little  when  Aunt  Cosie  said  this,  but 
I  was  ashamed  to  let  her  guess  my  feelings,  so  I  promised 
to  do  my  best  with  Sydney.  To  my  surprise  she  seemed 
reluctant  to  accept  the  invitation. 

"  It  is  most  kind  of  Mrs.  Bevan,"  she  returned,  "  and 
of  course  I  should  enjoy  being  with  her — and  Cromer  is 
such  a  nice  place — but  I  would  much  rather  be  at  Prior's 
Cot  with  you  and  Aunt  Yvonne." 

"  But  you  are  so  fond  of  the  sea,  Sydney." 

"  Yes,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  disappoint  Mrs. 
Bevan,"  but  Sydney's  tone  was  exceedingly  dubious. 
"  I  think  we  had  better  talk  to  Mr.  Darnell,  Githa,  and 
be  guided  by  what  he  says.  If  he  advises  me  to  write 
to  Aunt  Yvonne  I  will  do  so,"  and  she  kept  her  word ; 
and  as  father  took  Aunt  Cosie's  view,  and  seemed  anxious 
that  she  should  have  a  pleasant  companion,  the  letter  was 
written  without  delay. 

Mother's  answer  came  by  return  of  post. 

Sydney  laid  it  down  beside  me  without  a  word;  but 
I  was  sure  from  her  manner  that  the  letter  disappointed 
her,  and  yet  nothing  could  have  been  kinder. 

Mother  wished  her  to  accept  Aunt  Cosie's  invitation. 
330 


TITANIA 

She  said  it  was  far  too  advantageous  an  offer  to  refuse ; 
besides,  it  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Bevan  really  needed 
her. 

"  I  know  how  you  love  the  sea,  and  the  change  will 
do  you  a  world  of  good,"  she  wrote.  "  You  have  always 
wanted  to  take  swimming  lessons ;  well,  now  is  your 
opportunity.  Seriously,  dear  child,  there  is  not  a  single 
obstacle  to  prevent  your  going  to  Cromer  with  a  clear 
conscience.  I  shall  have  Githa  for  a  month,  at  least,  so 
there  is  no  fear  of  my  feeling  dull  " ;  and  so  on.  I  won- 
dered if  Sydney  read  between  the  lines  as  clearly  as  I 
did.  Aunt  Cosie's  invitation  evidently  came  at  the  right 
moment.  Mother  would  be  glad  to  have  me  to  herself. 
I  never  knew  if  Sydney  guessed  this ;  but  she  went  off 
that  very  morning  to  tell  Aunt  Cosie,  and  on  her  return 
she  informed  me  that  everything  was  settled,  and  that 
she  was  going  to  order  her  new  bathing  dress,  as  mother 
had  promised  her  a  course  of  swimming  lessons. 

I  saw  Sydney  was  trying  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and 
though  I  knew  she  would  much  rather  have  been  at  home 
just  now,  I  was  quite  sure  that  she  would  be  happy  with 
Aunt  Cosie.  They  were  to  start  for  Cromer  tw^o  days 
before  I  was  to  leave  for  Bayfield,  and  that  very  evening 
father  brought  Thurston  home  with  him,  and  kept  him 
to  dinner. 

Father  had  an  important  letter  to  write  in  the  evening, 
so  Thurston  and  I  sat  on  the  balcony,  talking  about  his 
plans  and  Sydney.  He  seemed  quite  bright  and  hopeful, 
only  he  confessed  to  a  longing  for  the  woods  and  Laddie. 
"  But  I  must  dree  my  weird,"  he  finished,  lifting  his 
head  a  little  proudly.  "  *  Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,' 
and  I  have  not  made  my  fortune  yet ;  but  she  shall  see." 
And  there  was  a  brave  resolute  expression  in  Thurston's 
eyes, 

331 


XXXIV 

NOAH'S  ARK 


There  conies  a  day  with  you  and  me 
When  all  things  with  us  disagree. 
We  hate  ourselves,  our  friends  we  hate, 
And  doubt  all  good  and  rail  at  fate.  .  .  . 
The  tide  that  ebbs  will  flow  again ; 
From  rest  to-day  you  wisely  borrow 
A  double  strength  to  bless  to-morrow. 

Goethe. 

I  THOUGHT  of  Thurston's  words  as  I  travelled  down  to 
Bayfield  two  days  later.  "  I  must  dree  my  weird."  Oh, 
that  sad  little  sentence !  How  often  one  hears  it,  and  in 
what  varying  tones — proud,  submissive,  hopeless,  re- 
signed ;  and  yet  at  certain  periods  of  our  lives  we  must 
all  say  it. 

I  had  awakened  with  a  heavy  heart  that  morning. 
If  it  had  not  seemed  fanciful  I  could  have  said  that  a 
presentiment  of  some  impending  trial  seemed  to  oppress 
me — a  vague,  nameless  anxiety,  for  which  there  appeared 
no  reason.  I  was  so  low  that  I  shed  tears  when  I  bade 
father  good-bye ;  and  though  he  pretended  to  laugh  at 
me,  and  assured  me  that,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge, 
we  were  not  parting  for  life,  I  could  see  he  was  a  little 
uneasy;  for  he  begged  me  to  take  care  of  myself  and  to 
write  as  often  as  possible.  "  For  you  are  far  too  thin 
and  unsubstantial,  Gip,  for  my  taste,"  he  added;  but  he 
had  no  time  to  say  more,  as  the  train  began  to  move. 

I  knew  father  was  right.     I  was  certainly  thinner. 
332 


NOAH'S  ARK 

Mardie  had  told  me  the  day  before  with  quite  a  grieved 
look  on  her  dear  old  face ;  but  with  all  my  surface  bright- 
ness there  was  always  the  same  deep,  inward  sadness 
underneath,  as  though  something  had  gone  wrong  with 
my  young  life,  and  there  could  be  no  rest  for  me  until 
it  was  set  right.  I  am  quite  sure  that  no  one  guessed  how 
I  brooded  over  things.  When  father  tried  to  amuse  me, 
and  was  always  planning  little  pleasures  and  surprises, 
I  knew  that  he  was  cheating  himself  with  the  belief  that 
Gipsy  was  so  young  that  she  would  soon  forget,  and 
become  accustomed  to  the  situation ;  and  though  my 
mother  was  less  sanguine  now,  she  too  comforted  herself 
with  the  recuperative  powers  of  youth ;  but  they  neither  of 
them  knew  how  it  was  with  me,  or  how  the  thought  of 
my  visit  oppressed  me  like  a  waking  nightmare. 

If  I  could  only  have  had  Sydney's  bright,  healthy 
companionship ;  if  the  Vicarage  were  not  empty  ;  but  there 
was  no  one  with  whom  I  could  exchange  a  word  except 
mother.  Morning,  noon,  and  night  we  should  be  together, 
and  always  with  this  barrier  between  us ;  and  much  as 
I  loved  her,  the  thought  suffocated  me. 

Mr.  Carlyon  had  told  me  about  his  old  college  friend, 
Mr.  Grenville.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  some  respects 
a  woman-hater;  at  least  he  was  always  shy  with  ladies. 

"  Grenville  is  a  good  fellow,  and  does  his  work  well," 
Mr.  Carlyon  had  said  to  me  that  evening;  "and  he  is 
a  delightful  companion  when  he  is  in  touch  with  people; 
but  his  health  is  not  good,  and  he  is  a  bit  of  a  recluse." 
And  this  description  made  me  think  that  we  were  not 
likely  to  have  much  intercourse  with  Mr.  Grenville. 

When  I  reached  Prior's  Cot  mother  received  me  as 
affectionately  as  ever.  She  had  been  doing  up  my  room, 
and  she  took  me  up  at  once  to  see  the  new  paper  and 
some  improvements  she  had  made.     I  should  have  been 

333 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

hard  to  please,  if  I  had  not  been  satisfied,  for  it  was 
the  daintiest  little  nest  of  a  room,  with  its  pink  paper  and 
new  muslin  hangings.  Of  course  I  thanked  her,  and 
praised  all  the  arrangements;  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  The  corner  room  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge  must  be  far 
nicer,"  she  observed ;  "  but  I  have  done  my  poor  best ; 
and  I  daresay  it  will  do  well  enough  for  summer  quarters. 
If  I  could  only  have  afforded  a  new  carpet,  Githa;  but 
we  must  wait  until  next  year  for  that." 

As  we  sat  over  our  tea,  mother  told  me  that  Lady 
Wilde  had  only  left  the  previous  day.  Dr.  Neale  had 
gone  away  too  for  his  holiday,  and  had  left  quite  a  young 
locum  tenens.  "  Dr.  Ramsay  is  his  name,"  she  went  on ; 
"  he  is  rather  an  angular-looking  Scotchman,  with  high 
cheek  bones ;  but  Dr.  Neale  says  he  is  clever,  though  I 
do  not  much  like  the  look  of  him.  Dr.  Neale  called  to 
say  good-bye,  Githa,  and  then  he  told  me  that  Lady  Wilde 
had  been  ill." 

"Oh,  not  very  ill,  I  hope?" 

"  No ;  but  sufficiently  so  to  make  him  a  little  bit 
anxious  about  her ;  for  she  is  an  old  woman,  you  know. 
But  he  told  me  that  she  was  decidedly  better,  and  that 
she  was  going  to  Scarborough  for  two  months." 

"  And  she  has  actually  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  was  driving  yesterday  morning,  and  the 
carriage  passed  me,  and  we  both  bowed.  She  certainly 
looked  ill  and  rather  altered.  I  am  quite  sure  that  she 
had  not  expected  Thurston  to  take  her  at  her  word,  and 
that  she  never  meant  things  to  come  to  this  pass." 

"  Dear  mother,  she  has  only  to  send  Thurston  a  mes- 
sage, and  he  would  go  to  her  at  once." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  But  you  see,  Githa,  Lady 
Wilde  would  think  that  weak  and  undignified  on  her  part. 
She  considers  that  her  grandson  is  wholly  in  the  wrong, 

334 


NOAH'S  ARK 

and  that  he  has  behaved  most  ungratefully  to  her,  and 
that  any  advances  must  be  made  by  him." 

"  Do  you  think  we  ought  to  tell  him  that  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present.  It  would  be  useless,  for  he  could  not 
follow  her  to  Scarborough." 

"  But  he  could  write." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  she  would  answer  his  letter.  She 
is  a  very  obstinate  old  woman,  Githa ;  and  all  this  oppo- 
sition has  certainly  not  sweetened  her  temper,  though 
it  has  made  her  ill.  If  Thurston  would  take  my  advice, 
he  will  do  nothing  until  Lady  Wilde  returns  to  St,  Helen's 
Towers ;  and  then,  if  he  has  sufficient  pluck,  he  might 
pay  her  a  surprise  visit.  Of  course  one  cannot  tell  what 
sort  of  reception  will  be  given  him,  but  at  least  he  will 
have  done  his  best  to  heal  the  breach." 

"  I  shall  certainly  tell  him  all  this,"  I  returned,  for 
I  was  much  struck  by  the  soundness  of  this  advice;  and 
then  mother  began  to  question  me  a  little  closely  about 
Thurston  and  Sydney.  I  knew  it  was  useless  to  evade 
her  penetration ;  besides,  Sydney  was  always  so  frank 
and  unreserved  in  her  letters ;  so  I  did  not  attempt  to  hide 
anything.  I  told  her  that  we  seemed  always  coming 
across  Thurston,  that  he  evidently  made  himself  ac- 
quainted with  our  movements,  but  that  neither  Sydney 
nor  I  were  to  blame. 

I  saw  from  mother's  face  that  she  was  not  pleased ; 
her  lips  tightened  a  little. 

"  It  was  not  Sydney's  fault,"  I  repeated ;  "  she  seemed 
always  so  surprised  to  see  him,  though  she  was  pleased 
too ;  and  Thurston  always  had  some  plausible  excuse  for 
being  just  there." 

"  I  never  thought  of  blaming  Sydney."  Rut  mother 
spoke  in  rather  a  cold,  inflexible  voice.  "  But  when  I 
had  stated  my  wishes  so  clearly,  I  think  your  father  might 

335 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

have  carried  them  out  more  carefully.  He  could  not 
forbid  Thurston  to  take  an  evening  walk  in  the  Park; 
but  there  was  no  need  to  stop  and  speak  to  him,  and  I 
wish  now  I  had  never  sent  Sydney  to  St.  Olave's." 

I  flushed  up  indignantly.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  ever  blamed  father  in  my  hearing,  either  directly 
or  indirectly,  and  I  had  hard  work  to  restrain  myself  from 
a  hot  defence.  I  bit  my  lip  to  keep  silence,  and  my  for- 
bearance was  rewarded,  for  mother's  manner  changed 
immediately. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Githa.  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt 
you  ;  but  I  felt  a  little  strongly  about  it.  I  did  not  certainly 
write  to  your  father  about  Sydney ;  but  he  knew,  did  he 
not,  the  conditions  under  which  I  was  sending  her?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  mother ;  and  I  know  that  he  tried 
his  best  to  fulfil  them.  He  did  so  want  Thurston  to  dine 
with  us  that  evening  when  Mr.  Carlyon  came ;  but  he 
would  not  have  invited  him  for  the  world.  I  think,"  hesi- 
tating a  little,  "  that  father  is  so  soft-hearted  that  he  hates 
seeing  people  uncomfortable,  and  so  he  cannot  help  being 
kind  to  them ;  and  perhaps  this  makes  him  rather  lax." 

An  odd  little  smile  came  to  mother's  lips  as  I  said 
this. 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right,  my  dear.  I  have  seen  your 
father  take  a  world  of  trouble  to  restore  a  frozen  bee  to 
life,  and  to  help  a  lame  dog  that  had  been  run  over.  It 
made  him  uncomfortable  to  see  anything  in  pain — it  is 
his  temperament,  and  you  have  it  too,  Githa ;  but  you 
must  watch  yourself  carefully :  even  pity  and  compassion 
can  deteriorate  into  self-indulgence  and  mere  luxury  of 
emotion." 

I  sighed.  Mother's  ideal  of  duty  always  seemed  so 
far  beyond  mine.     I  was  certainly  more  father's  child 


336 


NOAH'S  ARK 

than  hers.  Like  him,  I  was  impulsive,  and  loved  to  give 
pleasure  when  help  was  needed.  I  could  not  sit  down 
and  calmly  investigate  the  merits  of  the  case.  If  a  tramp 
were  hungry,  he  must  be  fed,  even  if  he  refused  to  work ; 
and  father  was  even  more  injudicious,  for  I  had  known 
him  give  money  to  a  wretched-looking  old  man,  shivering 
and  shaking  near  a  cofifee-tavern, 

"But  he  will  not  have  hot  coffee,  Gip,"  he  observed 
with  a  rueful  smile ;  "  it  will  be  gin — you  may  take  my 
word  for  that.  There  is  a  public-house  round  the  corner, 
and  as  soon  as  we  turn  our  backs  he  will  slip  round." 
And  father  was  right.  I  remember  I  took  him  to  task 
rather  severely,  but  he  would  not  be  convinced. 

"  Poor  old  chap !  why  should  I  not  help  him  to  get 
the  one  thing  he  wants  to  make  him  happy  and  to  bring 
warmth  to  his  bones  ?  There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes. 
I  should  prefer  the  hot  coffee,  but  our  friend  yonder  has 
a  preference  for  gin.  Perhaps  we  should  feel  the  same 
in  his  case." 

We  talked  a  little  more  about  Thurston  and  Sydney; 
but  I  could  see  mother  was  very  careful  in  what  she  said, 
and  as  I  met  her  half  way,  we  finished  the  conversation 
most  harmoniously.  Somehow  these  talks  produced  in  me 
a  sense  of  mental  fatigue.  Without  being  exactly  con- 
scious of  the  fact,  my  nerves  were  in  a  state  of  tension. 
In  looking  back  at  these  August  days,  I  know  now  that 
I  was  not  in  a  normal  condition.  I  was  sensitive  and 
nervous,  and  always  on  the  watch ;  for  in  spite  of  my 
mother's  stern  self-repression  and  guarded  manner,  she 
could  not  always  restrain  a  querulous  word  of  disapproval 
at  my  impulsiveness.  At  a  sudden  allusion  to  some  home 
interest,  a  shade  would  cross  her  face,  or  her  lips  would 
stiffen,  and  I  knew  by  her  silence  that  I  had  somehow 
hurt  her,  though  I  could  not  always  guess  the  reason. 
22  327 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

It  was  a  difficult  position  for  us  both,  and  if  we  had  loved 
each  other  less  things  would  have  been  easier. 

I  tried  to  settle  down  to  my  quiet  life  and  to  find 
some  enjoyment  in  it,  but  I  was  nervously  languid  and 
restless,  and  the  days  seemed  endless.  The  weather  was 
unusually  hot,  and  the  country  needed  rain ;  the  pastures 
and  gardens  began  to  look  dried  up,  and  the  wells  were 
getting  low.  Mother  used  to  look  quite  unhappy  when 
she  saw  her  flowers  all  drooping  and  wilted  with  the  heat. 
"  How  thirsty  they  look,  poor  things,"  she  would  say ; 
"  and  Sam  tells  me  that  we  must  not  use  the  water.  That 
is  the  worst  of  Bayfield — the  water  supply  is  so  limited 
unless  we  have  it  up  from  the  river  more  than  a  mile 
away ;  in  very  dry  seasons  things  get  rather  serious." 

I  had  often  heard  mother  say  this  before,  but  as  she 
was  generally  away  in  August,  she  was  spared  a  good 
deal  of  anxiety  about  her  garden.  The  heavy  dews  at 
night  comforted  her  a  little,  and  several  times  a  day  she 
consulted  the  barometer  in  the  hall  in  the  hope  that  rain 
might  be  expected ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the  geese  on  the 
village  green  shared  this  hope. 

The  little  ponds  were  nearly  dried  up,  and  there  was 
much  discontented  hissing  from  yellow  bills — even  the 
ducks  dibbling  between  the  stones  could  find  little 
moisture,  and  quacked  their  griefs  noisily.  Even  the 
tinker's  old  grey  donkey  had  her  say,  and  her  voice 
though  discontented  was  so  suggestive  of  misery  that  I 
went  back  to  Prior's  Cot  and  gave  such  a  feeling  descrip- 
tion to  mother  that  she  made  Sam  carry  a  pail  of  water 
and  a  feed  of  corn  to  the  green,  and  poor  old  Jenny  had 
a  royal  feed.  Jenny  had  a  grateful  disposition,  and  she 
never  forgot  a  kindness :  after  that  day  when  I  passed 
her  on  the  green  she  always  lifted  her  head  and  softly 
brayed  a  welcome.     I  often  carried  her  a  few  carrots,  or 

338 


NOAH'S  ARK 

a  fresh  lettuce  or  two  or  an  apple,  and  she  would  feed 
from  my  hand  in  the  most  confiding  way.  But  I  never 
could  make  friends  with  the  geese.  I  disliked  the  way 
they  came  towards  me  with  their  long  necks  outstretched 
and  their  dusty  wings  flapping,  and  hissing  out  their 
grievances  as  though  they  thought  the  dried-up  pond  was 
my  doing;  but  after  all,  geese  have  not  a  large  amount 
of  sense,  and  perhaps  the  poor  things  meant  no  harm. 

As  I  always  woke  early  I  used  to  write  my  daily  letter 
to  father  before  breakfast,  and  considering  that  I  had 
no  news,  it  was  wonderful  how  I  contrived  to  fill  the 
sheet;  but  he  always  said  that  he  enjoyed  my  morning 
chats. 

After  breakfast,  as  mother  was  generally  busy  for  an 
hour  or  two,  I  used  to  stroll  out  with  Roy ;  even  at  that 
early  hour  it  was  rather  hot  for  walking,  but  I  was  too 
restless  to  remain  in  the  house  or  garden.  I  liked  to 
revisit  my  old  haunts,  the  churchyard,  and  especially  the 
long  lane  that  led  to  Feltham  Road. 

Often  I  crossed  the  stile  and  the  sloping  meadow  to 
a  narrow,  shut-in  lane  where  there  were  two  old  thatched 
cottages  standing  side  by  side.  They  were  very  pictur- 
esque, with  yellow  lichen  growing  in  the  low  eaves,  and 
their  tiny  window  and  porch  smothered  in  traveller's 
joy.  They  were  so  close  together  that  'but  for  the  two 
porches  one  would  have  taken  them  for  one  cottage,  and 
they  were  always  called  Noah's  Ark.  I  never  could  dis- 
cover the  reason  of  this  name,  unless  it  arose  from  the 
fact  that  a  certain  Jonas  Noah  had  built  the  cottages. 
I  remember  Mr.  Carlyon  shaking  his  head  when  I  praised 
Noah's  Ark  somewhat  enthusiastically. 

"  I  grant  you  that  they  arc  picturesque,"  he  said  rather 
gravely;  "but  they  are  tumble-down,  ruinous,  old  places, 
and  in  my  opinion  are  quite  unfit  for  human  habitation. 

339 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Some  of  the  thatch  is  torn  down,  and  the  birds  build 
their  nests  and  make  such  havoc  that  the  rain  comes 
through,  and  there  is  not  a  whole  board  in  the  place.  I 
have  spoken  several  times  to  the  owner,  but  he  is  a  close- 
fisted  old  beggar,  and  very  averse  to  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket;  but,  as  I  tell  him,  those  cottages  are  a  dis- 
grace to  Bayfield." 

Old  Peggy  Knowles  had  lived  in  one  of  those  cot- 
tages, and  the  other  was  inhabited  by  a  widow  and  her 
daughter.  They  were  very  respectable  people  and  had 
known  better  days,  but  misfortune  and  poverty  had  driven 
them  to  the  shelter  of  Noah's  Ark.  Ada  Martin  had 
been  lame  from  her  birth,  and  could  only  move  with 
difficulty  on  her  crutches;  for  years  she  had  never  left 
the  lane,  and  her  only  change  was  to  sit  in  her  big  arm- 
chair in  the  little  front  garden. 

Mrs.  Martin  suffered  from  chronic  asthma,  which 
prevented  her  from  carrying  on  her  work  as  a  laundress. 
But  both  mother  and  daughter  took  in  a  little  fine  needle- 
work. Mother  was  very  good  to  them,  and  so  was  Mr. 
Carlyon,  and  even  their  poorer  neighbours  would  bring 
them  little  presents  of  eggs  or  vegetables,  or  do  a  turn 
in  the  garden  for  them. 

I  had  rather  a  liking  for  Ada;  she  was  a  patient 
creature,  and  bore  her  limitations  without  complaint.  "  It 
was  worse  for  mother,"  she  would  say ;  "  it  was  dreadful 
to  hear  her  breathing  sometimes  at  night." 

"  But  it  must  keep  you  awake  too,  Ada,"  I  once  said 
to  her. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Miss  Darnell,  but  I  haven't  got  the 
pain  and  the  suffocation.  I  could  almost  wish  I  had  it 
sometimes,  if  I  could  have  taken  it  from  her  ";  for  mother 
and  daughter  were  devoted  to  each  other. 

I  knew  how  much  Ada  enjoyed  my  reading  to  her 
340 


NOAH'S  ARK 

while  she  worked,  and  I  got  into  the  habit  of  going  two 
or  three  times  a  week.  I  read  Bede's  Charity  to  her  and 
Laddie.  The  walk  across  the  meadow  was  rather  trying 
in  the  heat,  but  the  kitchen  was  cool,  and  before  I  went 
home  I  generally  had  a  glass  of  water.  Mrs.  Martin 
always  brought  it  to  me  in  a  curious  old  goblet  of  either 
Dutch  or  Flemish  work.  Her  father,  who  had  been  a 
sailor,  brought  it  home  from  Holland,  and  it  was  quite  a 
household  treasure. 

I  am  not  sure  that  mother  approved  of  these  morning 
walks ;  she  said  they  tired  and  took  it  out  of  me.  "  It 
would  be  much  better  for  you  to  take  your  book  into  the 
Wilderness,"  she  observed ;  "  those  cottages  are  so  airless 
and  shut  in.  I  am  quite  sure  they  must  be  terribly  insani- 
tary." But  I  was  deaf  to  that  good  advice.  I  could  not 
stay  in  the  Wilderness,  and  I  much  preferred  Feltham 
Road  and  Noah's  Ark. 


341 


XXXV 

A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 


True,  I  talk  of  dreams, 
Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain. 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy. 

Shakespeare. 

For  this  relief  much  thanks. — Hamlet. 

When  my  early  walk  was  over  I  always  spent  the  rest 
of  the  day  in  mother's  society.  As  the  heat  became  more 
intense  we  generally  betook  ourselves  to  the  hall,  as  it 
was  the  coolest  place.  Mother  had  a  cane  lounge  and 
some  chairs  placed  there  for  our  use,  and  in  the  after- 
noon we  dozed  over  our  books.  In  the  evening  we  sat 
in  the  garden  or  strolled  about  the  lanes.  Unfortunately 
the  mare  had  lamed  herself  and  we  could  not  drive,  and 
this  prevented  us  from  going  on  the  river.  I  wondered  if 
Bayfield  were  hotter  than  other  places ;  there  was  so 
little  air,  and  even  the  nights  were  not  cool.  I  used  to 
envy  Sydney  watching  the  waves  rolling  in,  or  splashing 
in  the  sun-warmed  water ;  and  then  I  thought  of  father, 
striding  over  the  moors  purple  with  heather.  "  The 
weather  is  perfect,"  he  wrote ;  "  such  glorious  days ;  but 
the  evenings  are  a  bit  chilly  sometimes :  we  actually  had 
a  fire  the  other  night,  and  quite  enjoyed  it." 

I  am  sure  I  tried  my  hardest  to  make  myself  a  pleasant 
companion.  I  used  to  ransack  my  brain  for  interesting 
subjects.    We  discussed  our  favourite  books  and  argued 

342 


A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

over  them,  and  I  sang  all  mother's  favourite  songs  with- 
out being  asked,  and  yet  something  seemed  wanting  to 
our  enjoyment.  With  all  my  efforts  there  were  breaks, 
pauses,  long  silences.  Now  and  then  my  mother  would 
get  up  and  leave  the  room,  and  remain  away  quite  a  long 
time.  I  used  to  watch  anxiously  for  her  return ;  but 
she  never  offered  any  explanation.  Her  manner  would 
be  even  kinder  than  usual  when  she  next  addressed  me. 

One  evening  v/hen  we  had  come  in  from  our  stroll, 
she  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room,  and  I  followed 
her  rather  listlessly.  The  day  had  been  unusually  sultry, 
and  there  was  a  breathlessness  in  the  atmosphere  which 
seemed  to  indicate  an  approaching  thunderstorm.  Mother 
had  more  than  once  alluded  to  the  luridness  of  the  sky. 
"  A  thunder-shower  would  be  a  godsend,"  she  observed. 
"  If  only  I  could  hear  the  swash  of  the  rain  on  those  dry 
leaves  I  think  I  should  sleep  better  "  ;  and  I  could  not  help 
sighing  as  I  re-echoed  her  wish.  We  had  both  slept  badly 
the  previous  night,  and  all  day  I  had  been  conscious  of 
malaise  and  languor.  I  had  felt  a  little  faint  while  read- 
ing to  Ada  Martin  that  morning,  and  had  been  obliged 
to  close  the  book.  Mother  looked  at  me  a  little  keenly  as 
I  sighed.  "  You  have  tired  yourself  again,  Githa,"  she 
said,  in  rather  a  repressive  tone.  "  You  have  looked  far 
from  well  all  day.  Why  not  wait  until  the  evening  for 
your  walk,  and  then  I  could  accompany  you  ?  It  would  be 
far  pleasanter." 

"  Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,"  I  returned  reluctantly ; 
but  my  tone  was  not  cheerful.  How  could  I  explain  to 
her  that  it  was  the  solitude  and  the  companionship  of  my 
own  thoughts  that  I  craved ;  but  as  usual  she  guessed  all 
I  had  left  unsaid. 

"  It  is  not  what  I  like,  Githa,"  rather  impatiently.  "  I 
was  only  speaking  for  your  good.    You  come  back  tired 

343 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  over-heated  and  unable  to  enjoy  your  luncheon,  and 
you  do  not  recover  yourself  all  day.  I  wonder  how 
long  we  are  to  go  on  like  this  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  faltered. 

"  What  do  I  mean !  " — in  a  voice  that  alarmed  me, 
it  was  so  full  of  suppressed  emotion.  "  Have  you  so  little 
love  for  your  mother  that  you  cannot  realise  the  pain 
you  are  inflicting,  Githa?  I  have  tried  to  be  patient;  I 
have  said  nothing — not  one  word ;  but  I  feel  that  I  cannot 
bear  it  any  longer.  You  are  not  yourself.  You  are  not 
happy  with  me.  God  help  me !  but  I  believe  you  never 
will  be." 

"  Mother ! "  I  was  too  startled  and  shocked  to  say 
more. 

"  No,  I  would  not  lose  hope,"  she  went  on,  "  I  said 
to  myself:  Githa  is  so  loving  and  gentle  that  if  I  give 
her  time  things  will  surely  come  right  between  us.  But 
I  am  getting  hopeless.  We  shall  never  understand  each 
other  " ;  and  there  was  something  so  despairing  in  the 
beautiful,  flexible  voice  that  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes.  It 
was  the  truth  that  she  was  telling  me,  and  I  could  not 
contradict  it. 

Perhaps  the  electric  condition  of  the  atmosphere  added 
to  her  excitement,  for  she  seemed  suddenly  moved  from 
her  usual  self-control. 

"  Githa,  have  I  not  suffered  enough  ?  All  my  life — 
all  my  life  since  my  marriage  I  have  had  dust  and  ashes 
for  my  daily  food.  Oh,  this  loneliness,  it  is  killing  me, 
and  yet  one  is  not  allowed  to  die ;  but  at  least  I  might 
have  peace.  Child,  why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely, 
as  though  you  thought  I  were  distraught?  I  am  not 
angry,  only  I  feel  as  though  my  heart  were  breaking." 

I  knelt  down  beside  her — speechless  in  my  misery — 
but  she  made  no  attempt  to  draw  me  closer. 

344 


A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

"  There  is  no  need  for  both  of  us  to  be  unhappy,  Githa ; 
if  you  wish  it  you  shall  go  home.  If  you  write,  your 
father  will  come  back  to  you,  and  then  you  will  be 
content." 

"  Content !  when  you  tell  me  that  I  am  making  you 
so  miserable  that  you  are  forced  to  send  me  away  from 
you!  Mother,  is  this  kind  or  just?  What  have  I  done 
or  left  undone  that  you  should  treat  me  so?"  Then  she 
turned  and  looked  at  me,  and  there  was  the  old  mother- 
love  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  done  nothing,  Githa ;  it  is  not  your  fault. 
Poor  child,  you  have  tried  so  hard  to  do  your  duty." 

Her  tone  gave  me  courage.  I  laid  my  cheek  against 
her  arm.  "  Mother,  you  know  I  love  you — indeed  I  do," 
as  she  shook  her  head.  "  But  somehow — oh,  I  cannot 
express  it — we  seem  to  be  talking  to  each  other  at  a 
distance,  through  prison  bars.  We  are  always  trying  to 
understand  each  other " 

"  And  failing,  Githa,"  quietly  finishing  my  sentence. 

"  Yes,  and  failing,  if  you  will  have  it  so ;  but  all  the 
same  you  shall  not  send  me  from  you,  neither  would  I 
consent  to  go." 

She  pressed  my  hand.  "It  is  no  use,  darling;  we 
shall  be  better  apart,  and  I  am  not  sending  you  away  in 
anger." 

"  You  are  not  sending  me  away  at  all.  Mother,  will 
you  listen  to  me  patiently?  There  is  something  I  always 
wanted  to  tell  you — a  strange,  beautiful  dream  that  came 
to  me  one  night  when  I  was  unhappy."  And  then  wrap- 
ping my  arms  round  her,  I  told  her  about  the  Angel  of 
Forgiveness.  Long  before  I  ended  the  darkness  envel- 
oped us,  and  then  the  blue  flash  of  lightning  and  the  peal- 
ing of  thunder  drove  Roy  trembling  and  cowering  at  our 
feet ;  but  I  doubt  if  either  of  us  heeded  it,  for  the  angel's 

345 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

closing  words  were  on  my  lips :  "  The  secret  of  everlasting 
peace  is  theirs,  for  in  their  earthly  days  they  loved  much 
and  showed  mercy  on  the  unmerciful." 

Another  blinding  flash,  another  crash  of  thunder  over 
our  heads ;  a  long,  pregnant  moment  of  silence ;  then  she 
tried  gently  to  free  herself. 

"  I  must  close  the  windows,  Githa ;  the  rain  is 
beginning." 

"Yes,  in  a  moment,"  still  holding  her  fast;  "but  I 
have  not  quite  finished.  Mother,  if  you  really  love  me, 
if  you  want  me  to  be  happy,  let  my  dear  angel  speak  to 
your  heart.  Forgive  father  the  wrong  he  has  done  you 
— if  not  for  his  sake,  for  mine ;  forgive  him,  and  come 
back  to  us,  and  you  will  see  for  yourself  that  no  mother 
was  ever  more  honoured  and  loved." 

"  Hush,  darling !  no  more  " ;  but  before  she  left  me 
she  stooped  and  kissed  my  forehead.  How  cold  her 
lips  were,  and  was  it  my  fancy  that  her  face  was  wet? 
But  in  that  darkness  it  was  impossible  to  see. 

I  got  up  from  the  ground  and  groped  my  way  to  the 
couch,  for  I  felt  giddy  and  stupefied,  and  Roy  crept  into 
my  lap,  quaking  in  every  limb.  I  could  hear  mother 
closing  the  windows ;  then  her  voice  telling  me  not  to  be 
frightened,  and  she  would  send  lights.  The  storm  seemed 
increasing  in  intensity,  peal  after  peal  reverberated  over- 
head, and  the  flashes  seemed  continuous.  A  heavy  torrent 
of  rain  added  to  the  tumult,  and  every  moment  I  grew 
more  giddy.  When  Rebecca  brought  the  lamp  in  she 
asked  if  she  should  stay  with  me,  but  I  assured  her  that 
though  it  made  me  feel  ill  I  was  not  afraid. 

"  You  take  after  my  mistress  in  that.  Miss  Githa," 
she  returned,  roused  by  the  storm  out  of  her  usual  taci- 
turnity ;  "  for  she  is  standing  in  the  porch  this  very 
moment,  though  I  tell  her  it  is  tempting  Providence." 

346 


A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

I  knew  Rebecca  wanted  me  to  go  and  induce  mother  to 
come  back  into  the  drawing-room,  but  even  if  I  had  not 
been  too  dizzy  to  move,  I  knew  any  such  errand  would 
be  fruitless. 

Mother  always  gloried  in  a  storm ;  she  would  sit  and 
watch  it  from  beginning  to  end  with  never-ceasing  enjoy- 
ment; and  to-night  I  knew  her  troubled  spirit  would  be 
in  harmony  with  the  wild  forces  of  nature.  I  thought 
Rebecca  had  left  the  room,  but  I  heard  her  voice  again 
close  to  me. 

"  The  thunder  is  making  your  head  bad,  Miss  Githa ; 
you  are  looking  poorly,  and  it  is  getting  late,  too ;  so 
you  had  better  let  me  help  you  to  bed." 

I  felt  that  Rebecca  was  only  carrying  out  mother's 
wishes,  and  as  there  was  no  getting  rid  of  her,  I  allowed 
myself  to  be  guided.  Rebecca  gave  me  her  arm  in  her 
stifif  and  unsympathetic  way.  I  believe  no  one  but  mother 
understood  Rebecca.  As  we  passed  the  porch  mother 
turned  round  for  a  moment  and  waved  her  hand.  Her 
face  was  quite  white,  and  her  eyes  were  strangely  bright 
with  that  dark  background  and  the  cloudy  grey  of  her 
gown.  She  looked — as  Sydney  had  once  described  her — 
"  as  beautiful  as  an  angel,  if  any  of  those  fair  minister- 
ing spirits  could  have  worn  such  a  sorrowful  expression." 

"  That  is  right ;  Rebecca  will  take  care  of  you.  Good- 
night, dearest  " ;  and  then  she  turned  again  to  watch  the 
solemn  pageantry  of  the  skies.  I  was  thankful,  after  all, 
for  Rebecca's  help;  she  did  not  leave  me  until  I  was 
safely  in  bed.  The  storm  showed  signs  of  lulling  by  that 
time,  and  the  phcnacetin  she  had  given  me  had  quieted 
me  and  relieved  my  head,  and  I  fell  into  an  uneasy  doze ; 
but  it  did  not  last  long.  After  that  I  slept  fitfully,  and 
my  dreams  were  a  terror  to  me :  they  held  me  with  the 


347 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

force  of  a  nightmare.  And  if  I  succeeded  in  waking 
myself,  it  was  only  to  fall  asleep  again  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion, and  to  find  myself  still  beset  by  visionary  horrors. 
I  was  always  in  grey,  desolate  places,  with  a  red,  lower- 
ing sky,  and  darkness  creeping  up  behind  us ;  for  in  spite 
of  the  silence  and  the  awful  dreariness  I  was  not  alone 
— my  mother  was  beside  me. 

We  seemed  trying  to  overtake  a  figure  walking  swiftly 
down  a  rocky  defile.  I  knew  it  was  father,  and  strove 
to  call  to  him ;  but  my  voice  was  inarticulate  and  he  did 
not  seem  to  hear. 

Then  I  wanted  to  hurry  after  him,  but  my  mother 
was  tired,  and  leant  heavily  on  my  arm.  I  could  feel  her 
weight  impeding  me,  and  the  swish  of  her  grey  dress 
as  we  stumbled  among  the  boulders  was  quite  audible 
to  me.  "Faster,  faster!"  I  seemed  to  say  to  her;  then 
a  sort  of  fog  suddenly  blotted  out  everything. 

I  woke  panting  and  in  a  vague  terror,  but  Roy  licked 
my  hand  and  that  gave  me  a  sense  of  comfort.  The  little 
creature  had  curled  himself  up  on  my  bed,  in  spite  of 
Rebecca's  strong  disapproval,  and  refused  to  leave  me ; 
and  the  touch  of  his  warm  little  body  and  the  sound  of 
his  breathing  soothed  me. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  my  room  was  very  dark. 
I  wanted  to  open  the  window,  and  get  some  water,  for 
my  throat  was  parched  and  dry ;  but  mother  was  a  light 
sleeper  and  I  feared  to  awaken  her.  After  a  time,  how- 
ever, I  slept  again,  only  to  find  myself  in  a  still  more 
evil  plight. 

This  time  I  was  on  a  cliff.  My  mother  was  not  with 
me,  though  I  had  a  vague  notion  that  she  was  behind ; 
but  father  was  still  ahead.  I  was  nearer  to  him,  and  could 
see  him  distinctly,  but  I  was  again  in  the  grip  of  night- 
mare, and  my  voice  was  inaudible. 

348 


A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

The  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  sea  boiled  below  us 
like  a  cauldron.  I  could  see  huge  waves  hurling  them- 
selves against  the  cliff,  and  could  feel  the  cold,  salt  spray 
on  my  face.  The  sombre  light,  the  greyness  of  sea  and 
sky,  the  hideous  tumult  and  noise,  filled  me  with  alarm. 
Then  a  new  terror  beset  me.  The  cliff  was  unguarded, 
except  by  the  tossing  spray,  and  the  wind  was  strong; 
surely  father  was  walking  carelessly  and  too  near  the 
edge.  Again  I  tried  to  call — to  run — but  my  feet  were 
weighted  with  lead.  I  saw  him  stumble,  reel,  and  put 
out  his  hands  to  save  himself.  Then  a  mountainous  wave 
washed  over  him — and  he  was  gone. 

My  scream  of  terror  aroused  mother,  and  she  came 
hurrying  in,  to  find  me  sitting  up  trembling,  with  poor 
little  Roy  whining  beside  me. 

"What  is  it,  darling?  You  must  have  been  dream- 
ing." But  her  hands  shook  as  she  lighted  the  lamp  and 
then  sat  down  on  the  bed  beside  me.  But  I  was  only  half 
awake,  and  the  thing  seemed  so  horribly  real ! 

"  But  he  fell  over  the  cliff,  mother — a  big  wave  washed 
over  him  and  carried  him  out  to  sea.  I  saw  it,  and  felt 
the  salt  water  on  my  face." 

"  You  are  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  my  dear  one,"  she 
returned  soothingly.  "  Why,  what  nonsense !  It  was 
only  a  nightmare.  Very  likely  the  storm  excited  you,  and 
then  your  head  was  bad.  There — I  will  turn  your  pillow. 
Lie  down  again,  dearest,  and  I  will  sponge  your  hot 
face  with  eau-de-Cologne  and  water,  and  give  you  some 
lemonade  " ;  and  all  the  time  she  busied  herself  in  these 
kindly  ministrations  she  talked  to  me  in  a  quiet,  reassur- 
ing way.  But  the  nameless  terrors  that  beset  me  were 
not  to  be  so  easily  conjured  away.  A  new  thought 
harassed  me — a  sudden,  unbearable  anxiety.  I  caught 
mother  by  the  arm  as  she  was  straightening  the  sheet. 

349 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Mother,  if  I  should  be  ill — very  ill — you  will  send 
for  father.    I  could  not  be  without  him  then." 

My  feverish  imaginations  made  me  callous  to  her 
feelings.  I  never  guessed  that  she  sat  down  so  quickly 
on  the  edge  of  my  bed  because  she  could  not  stand ;  but 
her  voice  was  steady  in  its  gentleness. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  my  child.  You  can  surely  trust 
me."    But  I  was  not  pacified. 

"  But  I  want  your  promise,  mother.  You  are  so  true 
— so  true — and  I  know  you  never  break  your  word." 
Then  she  stooped  over  me  so  closely  that  her  face  nearly 
touched  my  hair. 

"  Be  at  rest,  my  poor  child,  for  I  will  certainly  give 
you  that  promise.  If  you  are  ill  your  father  shall  come 
to  you  " ;  and  then  with  a  sob  of  gratitude  I  clung  to  her 
in  silence. 


350 


XXXVI 

PHANTASMAGORIA 


Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh? 

Pain ! 
Let  us  arise  and  go  forth  to  greet  him; 

Not  in  vain 
Is  the  summons  come  for  us  to  meet  him; 
He   will   stay, 
And  darken  our  sun ; 
He   will   stay 
A  desolate  night,  a  weary  day. 
Since  in  that  shadow  our  work  is  done, 
And  in  that  shadow  our  crowns  are  won. 
Let  us  say  still  while  his  bitter  chalice 
Slowly  into  our  hearts  is  poured, 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord !  "  A.    Procter. 

The  faint  dawn  was  stealing  through  the  room  before 
my  mother  left  me.  I  had  fallen  asleep  holding  her  hand, 
and  her  light  movements  hardly  roused  me.  This  time 
my  rest  was  untroubled  by  my  terrifying  dream. 

Rebecca  brought  me  my  breakfast,  and  a  little  later 
mother  came  in.  She  was  fully  dressed,  but  looked  worn 
and  weary ;  but  as  usual  she  made  light  of  her  own 
fatigue,  and  seemed  only  concerned  on  my  account. 

"  The  storm  has  upset  you,  and  no  wonder,"  she 
observed.  "  It  was  more  violent  than  any  we  have  had 
for  years.  Rebecca  tells  me  that  the  maids  were  much 
alarmed.  I  thought  it  glorious,  but  I  am  afraid  my  poor 
roses  are  spoiled,  Githa." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  that,  mother." 
351 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Never  mind,"  with  an  effort  after  cheerfulness, 
"  there  was  abundance  of  rain.  The  trees  and  shrubs 
were  drinking  thirstily  for  hours,  and  they  do  look  so 
refreshed.     If  you  would  only  follow  their  example." 

Mother  wanted  me  to  remain  quietly  in  bed,  but  I 
was  far  too  restless ;  and  though  my  back  and  head  still 
ached,  and  I  felt  strangely  tired,  I  preferred  to  dress 
myself  and  lie  on  the  drawing-room  couch.  Later  in  the 
day  mother  wished  to  send  for  Dr.  Ramsay,  but  I  would 
not  hear  of  it.  If  Dr.  Neale  had  been  at  home  I  would 
not  have  refused  to  see  him,  for  we  were  good  friends ; 
but  the  idea  of  a  stranger  was  repugnant  to  me.  I  got 
so  excited,  that  she  gave  up  the  idea  for  the  present. 
"  Very  well,  then,  we  will  wait  and  see  how  you  are 
to-morrow,"  she  returned ;  but  she  did  not  seem  quite 
satisfied.  I  do  not  remember  how  the  day  passed,  but  it 
seemed  unusually  long.  I  managed  with  a  good  deal  of 
difficulty  to  write  a  short  letter  to  father,  but  though  I 
told  him  about  the  storm  I  said  nothing  of  my  languor 
and  depression.  When  this  task  was  accomplished  mother 
shaded  the  room,  and  I  lay  with  closed  eyes ;  but  I  could 
not  sleep.  I  had  spoken  more  than  once  during  the  day 
of  Ada  Martin — thunder  always  affected  her — and  after 
tea  mother  proposed  walking  over  to  Noah's  Ark.  She 
did  not  bring  me  back  a  good  report,  Ada  had  been  so 
ill  the  previous  night  that  Mrs.  Martin  had  sent  for  Dr. 
Ramsay.  "  He  came  when  I  was  there,"  she  went  on, 
"  and  we  walked  back  together.  I  thought  he  seemed  a 
little  uneasy  about  the  girl,  though  he  said  it  was  too 
early  to  diagnose  the  case,  and  that  he  would  be  able  to 
judge  better  when  he  saw  her  again.  But  he  told  Mrs. 
Martin  that  Ada's  bed  must  be  moved  downstairs,  as  the 

room  was  stifling  under  that  thatched Are  you  cold, 

Githa  ?  "  for  I  was  shivering  a  little. 

352 


PHANTASMAGORIA 

"  No ;  I  was  only  anxious  about  poor  Ada." 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  cause  for  anxiety,  my  dear. 
Ada  is  often  ailing.  Dr.  Ramsay  thought  I  had  better 
not  go  up,  as  he  wished  her  to  be  quiet." 

"  Then  you  did  not  see  her?  "  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  No,  dear.  I  could  hardly  disregard  his  orders ;  but 
I  am  going  to  send  Rebecca  across  after  dinner  with  some 
toilet  vinegar  and  jelly,  and  a  few  little  comforts.  Githa, 
do  you  know  Dr.  Ramsay  shares  Dr.  Neale's  opinion? 
He  says  those  cottages  are  terribly  insanitary.  He  means 
to  have  them  thoroughly  investigated — he  is  going  to 
write  to  the  Inspector  to-night — and  he  is  not  satisfied 
about  the  water.  Something  has  come  to  his  notice 
which  has  made  him  suspicious  about  one  or  two  of  the 
cottages.  I  really  think  he  is  a  very  clever  man,  though 
one  cannot  call  him  exactly  prepossessing." 

I  suppose  I  looked  just  a  little  queer  when  mother 
said  this,  for  she  knitted  her  brows  in  rather  an  anxious 
manner. 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  drink  any  of  the  water,  Githa  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did,  mother.  I  used  to  get  so  hot 
and  thirsty  with  reading,  and  it  really  tasted  quite  nice 
except  once,  and  then  I  did  not  drink  much."  I  saw 
mother  press  her  lips  very  firmly  together,  as  though  she 
feared  to  speak,  and  then  she  drew  back,  and  I  could  not 
see  her  eyes.  The  mischief  had  been  done,  and  she  would 
not  waste  words.  Probably  she  was  unwilling  that  I 
should  dwell  on  it ;  for  a  few  minutes  later,  when  T  alluded 
to  it  of  my  own  accord,  she  said  rather  hastily  that  though 
it  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  and  that  I  must  never  do  it 
again,  there  was  probably  no  great  harm  done,  and,  after 
all.  Dr.  Ramsay  might  be  an  alarmist.  But  I  wondered 
if  she  was  trying  to  cheat  herself  as  well  as  me,  and  if 
she  really  believed  her  own  words ;  but  I  was  too  weary 
23  353 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

to  pursue  the  thought.  She  went  away  to  prepare  for 
dinner,  but  I  was  unable  to  partake  of  the  tempting  httle 
meal  provided  for  me ;  the  sight  of  food  gave  me  positive 
nausea,  and  I  was  quite  grateful  when  mother  proposed 
that  I  should  go  to  bed.  I  found  Rebecca  in  my  room 
when  I  went  upstairs,  and  she  waited  on  me  in  her  silent, 
efficient  way.  It  was  a  relief  to  lay  my  head  on  my  pillow, 
and  I  was  so  exhausted  that  I  dozed  a  little ;  then  I  woke 
with  a  start,  and  thought  mother  was  in  the  room,  but 
when  I  spoke  to  her  Rebecca  answered  me. 

"  Were  you  wanting  anything,  Miss  Githa  ?  The 
mistress  has  just  stepped  out  to  take  the  air,  but  she  will 
not  be  long." 

I  felt  a  vague  surprise  when  she  said  this.  Mother 
must  be  restless  too,  I  thought,  to  go  out  again  after  her 
long  walk.  There  was  something  I  wanted  to  ask  her, 
but  I  could  not  recollect  what  it  was ;  perhaps  it  was 
the  ringing  in  my  head  which  made  me  so  confused. 

"Were  you  wanting  the  mistress,  Miss  Githa?" 
Rebecca  asked  again  in  her  smooth,  expressionless  voice. 

"  I  do  not  know — I  forget — oh,  it  does  not  matter," 
rather  fretfully.  "  I  wish  you  would  open  the  window 
wider,  Rebecca.    I  am  so  hot,  and  my  head  aches  so." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  bathe  it  with  some 
toilet  vinegar  " ;  but  I  turned  restlessly  away.  "  No  thank 
you — nothing  seems  to  do  any  good;  if  you  could  only 
stop  the  bells  ringing  in  my  head."  And  then  a  sudden 
thought  came  to  me. 

"  Rebecca,  I  thought  you  were  going  across  to  Noah's 
Ark  this  evening  with  things  for  Ada  Martin." 

"  Parkins  is  taking  them.  Miss  Githa ;  don't  you  worry 
about  it,  there's  a  dear  young  lady."  How  strange  of 
her  to  say  that.  Rebecca,  worthy  creature  as  she  was, 
was  seldom  affectionate — not  even  to  her  mistress,  to 

354 


PHANTASMAGORIA 

whom  she  was  absolutely  devoted.  "  Parkins  always 
enjoys  an  evening  walk."  Parkins  was  the  cook,  a  stout, 
good-natured  woman. 

"  Do  you  think  she  can  manage  the  stile  with  the 
jelly  and  things  ?  "  I  asked  anxiously.  It  was  such  an 
odd,  trivial  thought  to  come  into  my  head,  but  Rebecca 
took  it  quite  seriously.  I  had  no  idea  that  she  was 
humouring  me. 

"  Parkins  is  an  active  body  in  spite  of  her  size,  Miss 
Githa,  and  being  born  and  bred  in  these  parts  she  is 
used  to  stiles,  and  there's  a  gate  on  the  Feltham  Road 
that  is  seldom  padlocked  " ;  and  I  was  so  satisfied  with 
this  explanation  that  I  consented  to  lie  down  again. 
What  absurd  trivialities  harassed  me,  for  now  an  old 
trashy  nursery  rhyme  was  haunting  me.  Mardie  used  to 
sing  it  to  me.  I  could  not  remember  the  words,  but 
Rebecca  was  again  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  What  is  troubling  you  now.  Miss  Githa?  "  she  asked 
composedly. 

"  There  was  something  my  old  nurse  used  to  sing  to 
me,  and  the  noises  in  my  head  brought  it  to  my  mind," 
I  returned,  in  quite  a  vexed  voice.  "  It  was  about  bells 
— bells — oh,  I  can't  tell  how  it  went — and  it  worries 
me. 

"  I  think  I  know  the  old  rhyme  you  mean,  Miss 
Githa.  My  mother  used  to  sing  it  to  us  children  when 
father  tossed  us  on  his  foot. 

'  Ride   a  cock   horse   to   Banbury   Cross, 
See  an  old  woman  ride  on  a  cock  horse, 
With  bells  on  her  fingers  and  bells  on  her  toes, 
She  shall  have  music  wherever  she  goes.' " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Becky,  that  is  what  I  meant ;  but 
the  bells  were  not  ringing  in  her  head,  you  know." 

355 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  It  would  not  have  rhymed,  Miss  Githa,"  she  returned, 
shaking  up  my  pillow.  "  Now,  you  had  better  try  to 
go  to  sleep  again.    I  shall  be  within  call  if  you  want  me." 

I  suppose  I  must  have  dozed  again,  for  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  lying  on  a  bank  of  heather  on  a  sunshiny 
moor,  and  that  the  bees  were  humming  round  me,  such 
a  noisy,  continuous  hum,  which  grew  faster  and  faster. 
The  busy  winged  things  seemed  everywhere — on  my  dress 
and  brushing  my  face ;  then  they  rose  in  a  cloud,  and  I 
was  awake  again. 

Surely  some  one  was  speaking  outside  the  door. 
Rebecca — of  course  it  was  Rebecca's  voice.  "  She  is  a 
little  light-headed,  ma'am,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  " — 
here  the  voice  became  inaudible,  and  then  mother  came 
into  the  room.  She  was  rather  breathless,  and  her  hair 
was  disordered,  as  though  she  had  removed  her  hat  very 
hurriedly. 

"  Rebecca  tells  me  that  you  were  wanting  me,  dearest. 
I  am  so  sorry ;  but  it  was  such  a  lovely  evening  after 
the  rain,  and  I  was  a  little  restless  and  worried."  But 
all  the  time  she  was  speaking  her  hand  was  on  my  wrist. 

"  Your  poor  head  is  bad,  my  darling?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  it  does  not  matter ;  we  must  dree  our 
weird.  Thurston  said  so,  and  he  is  a  truthful  person." 
Then  the  old  worry  and  confusion  seized  me  again. 
"  Mother,"  I  said,  half  crying,  "  there  is  something  I 
want  to  say  to  you — something  very  important — but  I 
cannot  recollect  what  it  is,  and  it  does  trouble  me  so." 

"  Shall  I  help  you,  dearest?  I  think  I  can.  You  just 
wanted  to  remind  me  of  my  promise." 

I  clasped  my  hands  round  her  arm,  and  laid  my 
burning  face  against  them. 

"  That  was  it,"  I  whispered.  "  Mother,  you  will  have 
to  send  for  him  soon,  for  I  am  going  to  be  very  ill." 

356 


PHANTASMAGORIA 

It  is  quite  impossible  for  me  to  write  connectedly  of 
all  that  followed.  The  semi-delirious  state  lasted  through- 
out the  night,  and  for  many,  many  nights  and  days  after- 
wards, with  only  slight  intervals  of  consciousness.  They 
told  me  the  delirium  was  never  violent,  but  that  I  always 
seemed  much  distressed  and  troubled  by  uneasy  dreams, 
and  that  I  appeared  to  suffer  greatly  from  confusion 
of  thought,  and  sometimes  a  lack  of  power  to  express 
myself  intelligibly ;  it  was  not  easy  to  rouse  me  from  my 
comatose  condition,  or  to  recall  my  wandering  thoughts ; 
that  for  many  nights  I  had  no  natural  sleep,  and  talked 
much  and  incoherently,  but  that  there  were  times  when  I 
seemed  more  like  myself,  and  spoke  rationally.  My  own 
impressions  were  as  vague  as  they  were  fugitive.  That 
first  night  I  was  fully  aware  that  the  tall  man  who  was 
feeling  my  pulse  was  Dr.  Ramsay.  "  I  am  ill,"  I  told  him, 
"  not  only  because  I  drank  so  much  of  the  water,  but 
because — because  " — looking  into  his  ugly,  clever  face — 
"  I  was  so  dreadfully  unhappy." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  were  so  unhappy,  Miss 
Darnell  ?  "  He  had  rather  a  nice  voice,  and  it  roused 
me  as  I  seemed  dozing  again ;  then  my  mother  leant  for- 
ward and  touched  me. 

"You  forget;  you  are  not  unhappy  now,  darling;  you 
have  my  promise." 

"  Mother  knows  all  about  it  and  the  angel  too,"  I 
murmured  drowsily,  as  my  eyes  closed. 

It  was  after  this  I  saw  a  kind  woman's  face  bending 
over  me,  and  quiet  hands  that  seemed  very  busy  about 
me.  I  have  a  vague  idea  that  I  asked  her  her  name,  and 
that  she  said :  "  I  am  your  nurse,  my  dear — Nurse  Esther ; 
and  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you,  and  some  one  of 
whom  you  are  very  fond  will  help  me." 

I  liked  Nurse  Esther's  face — and  I  think  I  told  her 
357 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

so ;  and  then  soon  afterwards  I  had  such  a  pleasant  dream 
that  I  was  half  afraid  of  waking,  for  I  thought  my  dear 
Mardie  was  beside  me,  and  that  she  was  crying  and  hold- 
ing my  hand.  "  I  want  to  go  on  dreaming,"  I  said  to 
myself;  but  I  suppose  I  spoke  aloud,  for  some  one  in  the 
room  actually  sobbed. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  my  precious,  to  see  you  lying  there 
so  ill,  and  talking  about  angels,  and  all  sorts  of  queer 
things  " ;  and  then  the  mist  cleared,  and  I  knew  it  was 
Mardie's  kind  old  face,  and  that  she  had  come  to  help 
nurse  me. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  I  murmured,  as  I  flew  off  into  space 
again. 

For  always  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  I  were  climbing 
a  steep  hill,  sometimes  with  a  heavy  burden  in  my  arms. 
I  never  knew  why  I  was  so  bent  on  reaching  the  summit, 
but  however  high  I  climbed,  I  never  got  nearer.  At 
another  time  I  seemed  to  be  floating  amongst  the  stars, 
through  vast  spaces  of  cloudy  ether ;  there  were  shining 
worlds  above  and  below  me,  and  this  dream  was  exceed- 
ingly painful  to  me.  I  wondered  if  I  were  a  disembodied 
spirit,  I  had  so  completely  lost  all  power  of  gravitation. 
The  idea  that  I  was  drifting  farther  and  farther  from 
the  earth  amongst  millions  of  worlds  was  awful  to  me,  but 
more  than  once  Mardie's  comfortable,  homely  voice 
recalled  me. 

Things  always  seemed  blurred  and  indistinct  to  me. 
My  own  fevered  imaginations  so  confused  me,  that  I  was 
never  sure  whether  it  was  morning  or  evening,  and  even 
the  night  was  not  dark. 

Quiet  footsteps  glided  about  the  room,  tender  hands 
were  laid  on  my  throbbing  temples ;  sometimes  I  was 
conscious  of  my  mother's  presence.  One  evening  I  was 
unusually  restless — I  had  been  wandering  a  good  deal. 

358 


PHANTASIVIAGORIA 

This  time  I  imagined  that  I  was  in  a  dry,  sandy  place, 
and  that  a  river  lay  between  me  and  some  sunny  meadows 
where  lambs  were  feeding.  There  was  no  bridge,  and 
the  water  looked  deep.  "  Father  must  carry  me  across," 
I  muttered.  Was  it  part  of  my  dream  that  some  one  near 
me  whispered :  "  Speak  to  her,  Philip ;  she  will  know 
your  voice,  and  it  will  rouse  her." 

"  Of  course  I  will  carry  you,  Gipsy — anywhere, 
everywhere,  my  darling."  A  strong,  warm  hand  touched 
me.  Something — was  it  a  moustache? — brushed  my 
cheek.  "  I  am  here,  my  pet ;  open  your  dear  eyes  and 
look  at  me." 

The  meadows  and  the  river  receded  into  the  distance 
at  the  sound  of  that  beloved  voice.  "  Father,  my  own 
father,"  I  murmured  blissfully,  as  I  nestled  closer  to  him 
and  strove  to  lay  my  weary  head  upon  his  breast.  Then 
a  man's  deep  sob  answered  me. 

"  Hush,  Philip !  She  is  very  weak ;  we  must  be  care- 
ful. Hold  her  in  your  arms — she  will  be  at  rest  there." 
And  after  this  I  knew  no  more. 


359 


XXXVII 

THROUGH  PAIN  TO  PEACE 


Forgive,  O  God ! 
The  blindness  of  our  passionate  desires ! 
The  fainting  of  our  hearts !  the  lingering  thoughts, 
Which  cleave  to  dust !     Forgive  the  strife !  accept 
The  sacrifice,  though  dim  with  mortal  tears. 

F.   Hemans. 

Peace,  the  central  feeling  of  all  happiness. 

Wordsworth. 

It  is  useless  and  painful  to  dwell  on  that  weary  time, 
which  seemed  to  me  so  indistinct  and  shadowy. 

The  fever  ran  its  course ;  the  hours  passed  into  days 
and  days  into  weeks.  Everything  that  love  and  skill 
could  devise  was  done  for  me.  Dr.  Neale  returned,  and 
Dr.  Tressiter — our  kind  doctor  from  Cheyne  Walk — 
came  backwards  and  forwards  to  watch  over  my  progress. 
More  than  once  he  brought  with  him  a  white-haired, 
fatherly  old  man,  who  was,  I  heard  later,  a  noted  special- 
ist. Alas,  as  the  fever  lessened,  my  weakness  seemed  to 
increase,  and  I  know  now  that  for  many  days  my  condi- 
tion was  extremely  critical. 

They  have  told  me  since  that  my  father's  presence  had 
a  wonderfully  soothing  effect  upon  me,  and  that  I  never 
seemed  easy  unless  he  were  beside  me ;  that  even  if  I 
were  too  weak  to  speak,  I  would  move  my  hand  towards 
him  that  he  might  take  it.  Certainly  from  that  time  my 
dreams  were  less  distressing,  and  even  in  my  wanderings 
he  could  recall  me  to  consciousness  by  speaking  my  name. 

360 


THROUGH  PAIN  TO  PEACE 

Mardie  has  told  me  since  that  my  mother  never  left  me 
except  to  take  needful  food  and  rest.  My  poor,  dear 
mother,  what  she  must  have  suffered  in  those  days ! 

One  night  when  I  was  unusually  weak  and  restless, 
and  father  was  fanning  me  softly,  I  motioned  to  him  to 
stoop  a  little,  that  my  feeble  voice  might  reach  his  ear. 

"  Father,  dear,  I  do  not  think  I  am  dreaming,  but 
surely  the  angel  is  in  the  room."    I  could  feel  him  start. 

"  Good  heavens,  my  darling,  what  angel !  " 

And  for  the  moment  I  could  not  find  strength  to 
answer  him.  For  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  the  dear, 
beautiful  angel  of  my  dream  was  standing  at  the  foot  of 
my  bed,  and  that  there  was  a  grieved,  reproachful  look 
upon  his  face. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  I  seemed  to  say  to  him ;  but  I 
must  have  spoken  aloud.  "  I  have  done  all  I  could,  and 
it  has  made  me  ill,  and  mother  will  not  forgive."  Then 
some  one  beside  me  rose  hastily  and  left  the  room. 

"  Hush,  Gipsy !  hush,  my  little  girl !  there  is  no  one 
here  but  father.  You  are  dreaming,  dearest."  But  I 
shook  my  head  ;  to  me  it  was  no  hallucination. 

The  crisis  had  passed,  but  my  convalescence  was  very 
slow.  My  weakness  was  so  great,  and  I  made  so  little 
progress  from  day  to  day,  that  my  doctors  seemed  per- 
plexed and  anxious.  Once  when  Dr.  Tressiter  was 
alone  with  me — he  had  sent  Nurse  Esther  away  on  some 
errand — he  asked  me  in  his  kind,  friendly  way  if  any- 
thing were  troubling  me ;  but  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
answer  him. 

For  a  weary  sense  of  dejection  and  hopelessness 
seemed  sapping  at  the  roots  of  my  vitality,  and  I  cared 
for  nothing  but  to  lie  with  my  hand  in  father's  while  he 
read  me  some  simple  poem  or  story.  It  was  his  voice 
that  soothed  me,  for  I  remembered  little  what  he  read. 

361 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

I  cared  less  for  the  flowers  mother  brought  me.  They 
seemed  to  make  me  sad,  and  yet  I  loved  to  look  at  them. 
I  hardly  knew  myself  what  ailed  me,  but  I  felt  as  though 
I  never  wished  to  get  well  and  strong  again.  If  any 
one  spoke  kindly  to  me  the  tears  flowed ;  it  seemed  so 
ungrateful  not  to  care,  after  all  their  love  and  devotion. 
I  could  scarcely  bear  to  see  mother's  wan,  changed  look. 
I  knew  she  had  worn  herself  out  during  these  weeks  of 
watching  and  suspense.  They  had  removed  me  into  my 
mother's  room  because  it  was  large  and  airy.  There  was 
a  smaller  room  opening  into  it  where  she  always  slept. 
Nurse  Esther  was  still  with  us — mother  was  unwilling 
to  part  with  her — but  she  only  came  to  me  once  or  twice 
in  the  night,  to  give  me  nourishment  and  see  if  I  were 
comfortable. 

One  evening  I  had  retired  to  bed  early ;  the  day  had 
been  unusually  sultry  for  September,  and  I  had  been 
much  oppressed  and  very  languid.  Mardie  was  sitting  in 
the  inner  room.  I  had  begged  her  to  leave  me  alone, 
but  she  was  unwilling  to  go  far  away. 

"  I  shall  be  within  call  if  you  feel  lonesome.  Miss 
Githa,"  she  had  observed.  "  You  have  had  a  bad  day,  my 
dearie ;  but  the  cool  air  and  the  twilight  may  soothe  you 
to  sleep." 

I  thought  this  not  improbable,  and  the  stillness  was 
so  restful  that  after  a  time  I  was  just  dropping  into  a 
dose  when  the  hushed  sound  of  voices  under  my  window 
roused  me  to  wakefulness. 

I  had  always  a  very  keen  sense  of  hearing — 
Mardie  had  often  commented  on  it — but  to-night  it  seemed 
abnormal ;  though  the  voices  were  purposely  lowered,  I 
could  hear  every  word.  I  forgot  in  my  intense  interest 
that  it  was  not  meant  for  my  ear,  or  I  would  have  covered 
up  my  head.    It  was  my  father  speaking. 

362 


THROUGH  PAIN  TO  PEACE 

"  Dr.  Tressiter  is  sure  that  there  is  something  on  the 
child's  mind  that  is  retarding  her  progress.  He  confesses 
that  both  he  and  Dr.  Neale  are  much  disappointed ;  there 
seems  now  no  adequate  cause  for  such  extreme  prostra- 
tion." 

"  He  said  as  much  to  me,"  returned  my  mother 
dejectedly. 

"Yvonne,  how  long  is  this  to  go  on  ? "  Father's 
voice  was  raised  a  little.  "  Are  you  not  content  with 
wrecking  my  life's  happiness,  but  will  you  also  kill  your 
own  child?  Do  we  not  both  know  what  is  troubling  her? 
She  is  too  weak  to  bear  it,  and  I  will  not  answer  for  the 
consequences." 

"  Hush,  Philip !  you  are  speaking  too  loud ;  she  will 
hear  us  " ;  and  then  they  seemed  to  move  farther  away. 

My  heart  was  beating  so  that  I  could  scarcely  breathe. 
Did  father  really  mean  that  I  was  going  to  die?  And 
then  as  I  thought  of  the  lonely  drifting  among  the  stars, 
I  shuddered  and  grew  cold.  I  was  young — so  young — 
and  until  this  year  life  had  been  so  strangely  sweet.  A 
passion  of  self-pity  and  sorrow  seemed  to  shake  my  weak 
frame.  I  longed  to  call  to  mother,  to  tell  her  that,  after 
all,  I  did  not  want  to  die — that  she  must  save  me. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay  in  this  state  of  agitation, 
but  I  was  growing  cold  with  exhaustion,  and  in  another 
moment  I  should  have  summoned  Mardie,  only  at  that 
instant  I  heard  mother's  voice  in  the  inner  room.  She 
was  asking  if  I  were  asleep.  I  heard  Mardie  say  that  she 
thought  so,  but  was  not  sure ;  then  mother  came  herself 
to  look.  She  carried  her  little  shaded  lamp;  the  next 
moment  she  set  it  down  hastily  by  the  bed. 

"  What  is  it,  my  child,"  in  an  anxious  voice ;  "  do  you 
feel  ill?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  in  a  trembling  voice ;  "  I  think  I  am 
363 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

frightened.  No,  don't  call  Mardie,  please;  I  heard  what 
you  and  father  said  under  my  window.  I  do  not  want 
to  die,  and  yet  how  is  one  to  go  on  living  like  this  ?  " 
She  looked  at  me — shall  I  ever  forget  the  anguish  in  her 
eyes  ?  We  were  torturing  her  beyond  her  endurance,  but 
her  voice  was  still  firm. 

"  Githa,  He  still  a  minute,  and  drink  this,  and  I  will 
speak  to  you  directly."  She  gently  closed  the  door  of 
communication  between  the  rooms ;  then  taking  my  hands 
she  knelt  beside  me  and  waited  patiently  until  the  restora- 
tive had  brought  back  the  colour  to  my  lips. 

"  I  am  better,  mother.    Will  you  talk  to  me  now  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  I  will  ask  you  a  question,  darling,  and 
you  must  answer  it  frankly.  Is  it  true  what  he — your 
father — said  just  now,  that  this  trouble  between  us  is 
fretting  you  so  that  you  cannot  get  strong?" 

"  I  think  it  is  true,"  I  whispered.  "  Oh,  mother  dear, 
it  is  all  so  miserable  that  I  hardly  care  to  get  well.  And 
yet  to-night  the  idea  of  dying  frightens  me,"  finishing 
with  a  weak  sob. 

"  You  shall  not  die,  my  sweet,"  and  her  arms  almost 
crushed  me  in  their  strong  pressure.  "  Be  comforted, 
Githa ;  your  mother  loves  you  better  than  herself,  God 
help  me,  for  I  cannot  help  myself;  it  shall  be  as  you  and 
your  father  wish." 

"  Mother — oh,  my  dear,  my  dear — do  you  mean  that 
you  have  forgiven  him  ?  "  And  as  she  moved  her  lips  in 
assent,  it  appeared  to  me  as  though  the  silvery  masses  of 
her  glorious  hair  seemed  in  the  lamplight  to  shine  like 
a  nimbus  round  her  head. 

In  the  unspeakable  agitation  of  that  moment  neither 
of  us  heard  the  door  open  gently,  or  saw  a  dark  figure 
standing  motionless  on  the  threshold;  then  it  moved 
towards  us  and  I  saw  it  was  father. 

364 


THROUGH  PAIN  TO  PEACE 

"Yvonne,  is  this  true?  Oh,  my  God,  can  this  be 
true !  "  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  she  still  knelt 
beside  me.  Then  she  looked  up  at  him  and  said  in  a  low, 
thrilling  voice :  "  Philip,  I  have  been  wrong.  I  know  it 
now.  I  will  try  to  forgive  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven ;  only 
be  patient  with  me  for  our  child's  sake." 


They  have  told  me  since  that  the  shock  of  joy  was  too 
much  for  me  in  my  weakened  state ;  that  I  passed  from 
one  fainting  fit  into  another,  and  that  for  some  hours 
I  was  so  ill  that  my  life  seemed  to  hang  on  a  thread. 
But,  thank  God,  I  was  brought  back  from  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death.  "  As  one  whom  his  mother  com- 
forteth,"  those  were  the  first  words  that  came  to  me  in 
my  returning  consciousness. 

Dr.  Neale  remained  in  the  house  all  night ;  for  days 
my  parents  were  not  allowed  to  see  me  unless  I  were 
sleeping;  and  even  Mardie,  my  faithful  old  nurse,  was 
banished  from  the  room.  The  least  excitement  or  agita- 
tion would  be  dangerous.  Dr.  Neale  warned  them,  and 
Sister  Esther  was  to  have  sole  charge  of  me. 

I  was  too  weak  to  rebel,  and  Nurse  Esther  was  so 
good  to  me.  She  called  me  her  baby,  and  treated  me  so 
wisely  and  tenderly,  that  I  could  not  help  loving  her. 
She  was  a  sweet  woman,  who  had  known  many  sorrows, 
and  whose  vocation  was  nursing;  even  Mardie,  who  was 
always  jealous  of  any  one  who  interfered  with  her  special 
prerogative,  declared  that  Nurse  Esther  was  a  treasure. 

It  was  only  natural  that  I  should  long  for  my  dear 
ones ;  but  in  spite  of  everything  those  days  of  enforced 
seclusion  were  strangely  peaceful.  There  was  joy  deep 
down  in  my  heart — a  secret  gladness  which  I  was  too 
weak  to  investigate  properly. 

365 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

As  I  sank  into  quiet  sleep  at  night ,  I  would  smile 
to  think  of  those  two  standing  beside  me  hand-in-hand, 
and  perhaps  laying  a  light  kiss  on  my  brow.  "  If  only 
I  could  wake  and  see  them,"  I  would  say  to  myself;  but 
I  never  could  do  this. 

I  used  to  hear  Nurse  Esther  telling  Dr.  Neale  how 
brave  and  good  I  was,  and  then  he  always  spoke  a  few 
approving  words,  but  neither  of  them  guessed  that  it  was 
my  strong  wish  to  live  that  made  me  so  docile;  for  the 
thought  of  returning  health  was  sweet  to  me  and  the 
sunshine  of  a  new  hope  seemed  to  gild  the  future.  Then 
came  a  day  when-  patience  had  its  reward ;  when,  as  I  lay 
pillowed  upon  the  couch  beside  the  open  window,  Nurse 
Esther  told  me  that  she  had  the  doctor's  permission  to 
admit  visitors,  and  that  my  mother  was  going  to  have 
tea  with  me. 

For  the  moment  I  wondered  why  father  let  her  come 
first;  but  he  told  me  himself,  later  on,  that  he  could  not 
be  sure  of  himself,  and  that  he  was  so  afraid  of  hurting 
me,  that  they  had  arranged  this  between  them. 

When  mother  came  into  the  room  in  her  quiet  way 
and  kissed  me,  I  was  so  shocked  at  the  change  in  her 
appearance  that  I  could  hardly  help  crying.  They  had 
not  told  me  that  she  had  been  ill,  that  she  had  broken 
down  under  the  suspense  and  misery  of  that  night.  Only 
once  she  ever  spoke  of  it  to  me,  and  then  it  was  years 
later.  "  It  was  the  last  straw,  Githa,"  she  said ;  "  I 
had  suffered  so  much,  and  I  felt  I  could  bear  no  more,  and 
I  thought  you  were  dead,  and  I  flung  myself  upon  you, 
and  Dr.  Neale  made  your  father  take  me  away.  I  think 
I  was  not  myself  " ;  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head  in 
a  weary  way,  as  though  even  the  recollection  was  too 
much  for  her.  "If  you  had  died  that  night,  I  think  it 
would  have  killed  me  too." 

2ISS 


THROUGH  PAIN  TO  PEACE 

Mother  would  not  let  me  talk  sadly  that  afternoon. 
When  I  stroked  her  cheek  and  told  her  how  thin  it  was, 
she  only  smiled  and  said  she  would  soon  grow  fat  again, 
and  then  she  gave  me  a  message  from  father.  He  had 
walked  over  to  the  Vicarage,  and  would  come  in  presently, 
but  not  until  we  had  finished  our  tea. 

Nurse  Esther,  who  was  arranging  the  tea-table,  looked 
on  approvingly:  mother's  tact  and  self-control  evidently 
inspired  her  with  confidence,  and  she  felt  she  might  safely 
trust  me  to  her  care.  I  was  very  happy,  and  yet  I  was 
still  so  weak  that  my  hands  shook  when  I  tried  to  hold 
my  cup  properly,  and  mother  pretended  to  laugh  at  my 
awkwardness,  but  she  helped  me  all  the  time  so  nicely. 
It  struck  me  more  than  once  that  she  looked  older.  But 
what  a  dear,  beautiful  face  it  was — there  seemed  a  new 
expression  in  her  eyes — it  was  still  sad,  but  softer  and  far 
more  gentle. 

Once  as  she  was  stooping  over  me  to  straighten  my 
pillows,  I  drew  her  face  down  to  mine.  "  If  you  only 
knew  how  dearly  I  love  you,  mother,"  I  whispered ;  but 
she  only  smiled  at  me  in  reply.  I  knew  then  that  she  had 
promised  Nurse  Esther  to  be  very  careful,  and  not  to 
encourage  any  emotion.  The  next  moment  she  disen- 
gaged herself  quietly,  and  sitting  down  by  me  she  talked 
about  the  garden  and  her  flowers,  and  how  they  seemed 
to  miss  me  downstairs.  "  But  we  shall  soon  have  you 
there  again,"  she  continued  brightly.  It  was  lovely  to 
lie  there  in  the  warm  sunshine  and  watch  her,  but  my 
cup  of  bliss  was  full  to  the  brim  when  father  joined  us. 
Mother  gave  up  her  place  to  him  at  once. 

"  Well,  Gipsy,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully, 
"how  is  my  darling  this  evening?"  But  his  voice  was 
not  clear;  and  though  I  whispered  that  I  should  soon 
be  well,  and  that  I  was  so  happy — so  happy,  he  only 

367 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

kissed  me  very  tenderly,  and  then  sat  down  beside  me, 
shading  his  face  with  his  hand  as  though  the  Hght  were 
too  strong  for  him.  Poor  father,  they  had  coached  him 
so  carefully  in  his  part ;  but  he  was  a  poor  actor,  and 
he  was  already  breaking  down  a  little.  Perhaps  at  that 
moment  he  realised  how  nearly  he  had  lost  his  Gipsy ! 

It  was  mother  who  noticed  first  I  was  growing  weary, 
"  Philip,"  she  said  very  gently,  "  I  think  Githa  is  tired ; 
if  we  leave  her  now,  she  will  rest  a  little,  and  Nurse 
Esther  will  let  us  stay  longer  to-morrow.  I  am  going 
to  fetch  her  now." 

Father  rose  to  open  the  door  for  her,  but  when  he 
came  back  to  me,  I  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  smile. 
"  Father,  dear,  it  is  not  Darnell  and  Co.  now,  for  we  have 
got  mother,  and  I  have  been  telling  her  that  I  love  her 
so  dearly."  Then  I  saw  a  quick  flash  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  said  something  under  his  breath.  Was  it,  "  And 
so  do  I,  Gip  "  ?  But  I  could  not  be  quite  sure.  Only  I 
think,  I  really  think,  he  said  it. 


368 


XXXVIII 

AUTUMN  VINTAGE 


Oh,  what  is  the  pathway  white,  with  parapets  of  light, 
Whose  slender  links  go  up,  go  up  and  meet  in  heaven  high? 
'Tis  the  Road  of  the  Loving  Heart  from  earth  to  sky. 

Anon. 

Put  love  into  the  world,  and  heaven  with  all  its  beatitudes 
and  glories  becomes  a  reality.  .  .  .  Love  is  everything,  it  is  the 
key  to  life  and  its  influences  are  those  that  move  the  world. — 
R.   Waldo  Trine. 

From  that  day  I  made  steady  progress,  and  there  were 
no  more  serious  drawbacks.  Every  afternoon  when  I 
had  taken  the  rest  Nurse  Esther  still  so  rigidly  enforced, 
mother  spent  an  hour  or  two  with  me,  and  father  gen- 
erally came  too.  I  loved  to  have  them  together,  and  when 
father  read  to  me  it  was  always  a  pleasure  to  see  mother 
working  at  her  embroidery,  and  then  raising  her  eyes 
every  now  and  then  to  look  at  us.  She  was  always  very 
silent  when  father  was  in  the  room,  but  I  think  she 
enjoyed  listening  to  our  talk.  I  noticed  sometimes  how 
seldom  she  addressed  him — never  unless  it  were  neces- 
sary, and  that  when  she  did  so,  there  was  a  new,  gentle 
chord  in  her  voice ;  and  now  and  then  when  his  footstep 
sounded  unexpectedly  in  the  inner  room,  I  saw  her  change 
colour.  It  might  be  my  fancy  perhaps,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  she  was  not  quite  at  her  ease  with  him ;  and 
yet  to  me  who  loved  him  so,  there  was  something  inde- 
scribably touching  in  the  way  she  tried  to  meet  his  wishes 
24  369 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

— as  though  she  strove  to  make  amends  for  some  wrong 
that  she  had  done  him. 

Her  health  had  suffered  terribly,  and  I  could  see  by 
the  way  father  watched  her  that  he  was  anxious  about 
her.  He  would  say  sometimes  in  his  kind,  whimsical  way 
that  his  womenkind  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble ; 
but  I  am  sure  that  he  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for 
many  a  long  year.  Mother  was  always  very  patient,  and 
she  never  complained  of  her  want  of  strength ;  indeed, 
she  tried  to  hide  it  as  much  as  possible.  Only  she  once 
said  a  little  sadly  that  she  wished  she  could  do  more  for 
me.  When  I  grew  stronger  father  used  to  carry  me  down 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  then  mother  was  always  with 
me.  I  never  liked  any  one  else  to  perform  this  office,  and 
as  father  knew  this,  he  often  put  himself  to  great  incon- 
venience that  he  might  be  there  at  the  proper  hour ;  and 
even  if  he  went  up  to  town,  he  would  take  an  early  train 
back,  that  he  might  be  in  time.  My  first  drive  was  quite 
an  event  in  the  household,  but  after  that  I  went  out  daily. 
Mother  always  accompanied  me,  and  very  often  father 
drove  us.  How  I  enjoyed  those  drives  and  the  mellow 
sweetness  of  the  September  air ! 

It  was  after  this  Sydney  came  home.  Aunt  Cosie 
brought  her,  but  she  only  stayed  a  few  hours.  The 
dear  old  thing  fairly  wept  over  me  when  she  took  me  in 
her  arms,  but  we  soon  succeeded  in  cheering  her  up. 
Mother  was  unusually  quiet  that  day — I  think  the  meet- 
ing with  Aunt  Cosie  tried  her ;  but  Aunt  Cosie  behaved 
beautifully.  She  went  straight  up  to  mother  and  kissed 
her,  and  said  something  nice  and  kind,  though  I  could 
not  hear  what  it  was ;  but  such  a  lovely  colour  came  to 
mother's  face,  and  then  she  kissed  Aunt  Cosie  again 
of  her  own  accord. 

I  thought  Sydney  looked  sweeter  than  ever,  and  she 
370 


AUTUMN  VINTAGE 

was  so  overjoyed  at  seeing  us  all  again.  I  could  hear 
her  singing  "  Home,  sweet  Home  "  as  she  moved  about 
her  room ;  and  she  was  so  dear  and  affectionate  to  me. 
"  For  you  have  had  such  a  bad  time,  you  poor  thing," 
she  said  pityingly,  "  and  even  now  you  look  only  half 
your  size  " ;  and  then  Sydney  winked  away  a  bright  tear- 
drop or  two. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  cry  when  you  are  getting  well," 
she  went  on,  quite  indignant  at  her  own  weakness ;  "  and 
I  believe  it  is  true  what  Mr.  Darnell  said,  that  I  am  so 
sunburnt  and  robust,  that  I  make  you  look  quite  pale 
and  washed  out." 

Sydney  owned  frankly  that  she  had  had  a  pleasant 
time,  and  that  but  for  her  anxiety  on  my  account,  she 
would  have  been  very  happy.  She  and  Aunt  Cosie  had 
got  on  splendidly  together;  indeed,  they  seemed  quite 
sorry  to  part. 

Mother  drove  alone  with  Aunt  Cosie  to  the  station. 
Aunt  Cosie  asked  her  to  do  so,  and  mother  willingly  con- 
sented ;  it  would  give  them  both  an  opportunity  to  talk 
more  freely.  And  I  was  sure  from  mother's  face  when 
she  returned  that  evening  that  Aunt  Cosie  had  done  her 
good. 

I  had  asked  mother  more  than  once  about  Mr. 
Carlyon.  To  my  surprise  I  heard  that  he  had  not  yet 
returned,  or  the  children  either ;  and  later  on  she  told 
me  that  the  friend  with  whom  he  had  been  travelling 
in  the  Austrian  Tyrol  was  ill,  and  he  found  it  impossible 
to  leave  him,  and  that  Mr.  Grenville  was  still  at  the  Vicar- 
age. Mr.  Carlyon  had  written  to  her,  and  she  had 
answered  his  letter.  "  He  seemed  very  grieved  to  hear 
of  your  illness,  Githa,"  she  went  on,  "  and  he  begged 
that  I  would  let  him  have  a  card.  He  is  afraid  that  he 
will  not  be  home  until  quite  the  end  of  this  month,  so 
Mr.  Grenville  had  kindly  offered  to  stay  on,  though  he 

371 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

feared  it  put  him  to  much  inconvenience.  There,  I 
think  I  have  given  you  the  gist  of  the  letter  " ;  and  after 
that  I  was  ashamed  to  ask  mother  to  let  me  read  it. 

I  had  thought  a  great  deal  about  Mr.  Carlyon  during 
my  illness,  and  I  could  not  forget  our  last  talk ;  and  the 
remembrance  of  that  poor  young  Lady  Doreen,  who  did 
not  wish  to  die,  quite  haunted  me !  I  seemed  to  under- 
stand what  she  felt,  and  to  be  so  sorry  for  her.  I  longed 
to  hear  more  about  her,  and  I  wondered,  too,  if  Mr. 
Carlyon  was  really  anxious  about  me.  It  was  nice  of 
him  to  ask  mother  to  send  him  a  card  ;  it  looked  as  though 
he  thought  of  me  a  little. 

It  was  Sydney  who  brought  me  the  next  news.  She 
had  seen  Mr.  Grenville  driving  away  from  the  Vicarage, 
and  she  had  noticed  the  luggage.  "  There  was  a  cart 
with  two  heavy  cases  of  books,"  she  went  on ;  "  they  say 
he  always  takes  a  good  part  of  his  library  about  with  him. 
I  spoke  to  Dickinson,  who  was  at  the  gate;  he  told  me 
that  the  children  were  coming  back  to-morrow,  and  that 
the  Vicar  was  expected  Thursday." 

"On  Thursday!  Are  you  quite  sure,  Sydney?"  and 
my  voice  was  a  little  breathless.  And  Sydney,  who  was 
sorting  her  music,  answered  in  rather  an  abstracted 
manner,  that  Dickinson  had  certainly  said  Thursday. 

"  And  we  shall  be  glad  to  get  him  back,  shall  we 
not,  Githa?"  she  observed  cheerfully;  "for  somehow 
Bayfield  never  seems  the  same  without  Mr.  Carlyon,  '  the 
ideal  parson,'  as  Thurston  used  to  call  him  when  he 
wanted  to  tease  us."  For  Sydney  took  every  opportunity 
of  repeating  Thurston's  speeches  when  we  were  alone ; 
she  said  it  made  her  miss  him  a  little  less  to  talk  about 
him.  Poor  Sydney !  as  though  she  did  not  think  about 
him  morning,  noon,  and  night.  But  she  was  very  good 
and  brave,  and  was  always  as  cheerful  as  possible. 

372 


Autumn  vintage 

I  was  very  glad  to  know  that  Mr.  Carlyon  was  com- 
ing back,  for  it  had  troubled  me  a  little  to  think  that  we 
might  miss  him ;  and  I  was  anxious  not  to  leave  Bayfield 
without  seeing  him.  Dr.  Tressiter  wished  me  to  go  to 
the  sea ;  and,  as  mother's  health  also  needed  change, 
father  had  taken  a  large  furnished  house  at  St.  Leonard's 
for  three  months,  and  we  were  to  go  there  in  about  ten 
days'  time.  Of  course  Sydney  would  accompany  us,  and 
Mardie  and  Rebecca  and  Mrs.  Parkins,  and  some  of  the 
servants  from  St.  Olave's  Lodge.  Mrs.  Kennedy  and 
Hallett  were  left  in  charge.  Father  would  have  to  sleep 
two  or  three  nights  in  town  each  week.  He  was  intending 
to  make  some  alteration  in  the  house  that  required  his  per- 
sonal supervision ;  besides  which,  one  of  the  Bank  direc- 
tors was  ill,  and  a  good  deal  of  business  had  devolved 
on  him.  Dear  father,  how  he  planned  for  our  comfort. 
He  certainly  spared  no  expense  or  trouble.  The  horses 
were  to  be  brought  down  for  our  use — even  Bab ;  for 
he  hoped  that  after  a  few  weeks  I  should  be  strong 
enough  to  ride  with  him. 

We  were  not  to  go  back  to  Chcyne  Walk  for  three 
whole  months.  I  was  rather  sorry  to  hear  this,  for  I 
wanted  to  spend  Christmas  at  home.  But  father  said  that 
Aunt  Cosie  had  promised  to  come  to  us,  and  that  we 
could  make  ourselves  very  happy  at  St.  Leonard's ;  and 
then  I  felt  more  content. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  how  unwilling  I  was  to  leave 
Bayfield ;  but  when  Sydney  came  home  we  were  certainly 
rather  cramped  for  space.  Prior's  Cot  was  not  a  large 
house,  and  but  for  mother's  excellent  management  we 
should  hardly  have  been  so  comfortable.  I  think  father 
found  it  small  after  the  lofty,  spacious  rooms  at  St. 
Olave's  Lodge ;  but  we  knew  how  mother  loved  it. 

As  I  grew  stronger,  father  used  to  talk  to  me  about 
372 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

the  alterations  he  was  planning  at  St.  Olave's  Lodge. 
I  wanted  to  give  up  my  dear  corner  room  to  mother,  but 
he  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  said  that  the  room  which 
we  had  always  kept  for  visitors  was  equally  large  and 
cheerful;  and  then  he  told  me  that  he  intended  to  turn 
the  old  schoolroom  into  a  boudoir  or  morning-room  for 
her  use. 

These  talks  were  delightful  to  me ;  but  we  always 
stopped  when  mother  came  into  the  room.  I  think  she 
guessed  the  purport  of  our  conversation,  for  she  never 
questioned  us ;  she  seemed  to  leave  everything  to  father. 
I  never  heard  her  express  a  wish  about  anything,  or 
object  to  any  arrangement  he  proposed.  I  used  to  wonder 
if  she  would  mind  leaving  Prior's  Cot,  for  she  never 
even  mentioned  the  subject.  But  one  Sunday  evening 
as  we  three  were  sitting  together  in  the  twilight,  father 
suddenly  mooted  the  point. 

"  There  will  be  no  need  for  you  to  give  up  Prior's 
Cot,  Yvonne,"  he  said.  "  It  has  struck  me  more  than 
once  that  as  you  are  so  attached  to  the  place,  you  and  the 
girls  might  like  to  come  down  for  a  week  or  two  now  and 
then." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  will  not  mind  ?  "  And  something 
in  mother's  voice  thrilled  me.  "  Thank  you,  Philip,  for 
thinking  of  it.  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  part  with  it  " ; 
and  then  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  for  a  moment.  It  was 
the  first  approach  to  a  caress  I  had  yet  noticed.  It  was 
too  dark  to  see  father's  face,  but  there  was  quite  a  long 
silence  before  any  one  spoke  again. 

I  was  still  far  from  strong,  and  perhaps  Sydney's 
piece  of  news  rather  excited  me,  for  I  slept  a  little  rest- 
lessly that  night,  and  mother  found  fault  with  my  looks 
the  next  morning.  But  I  soon  convinced  her  that  there 
was  nothing  wrong ;  and  then  father  drove  us  out  as 
usual,  and  the  fresh,  sweet  air  soon  restored  me. 

374 


AUTUMN  VINTAGE 

As  we  passed  the  Vicarage,  I  was  glad  to  think  that 
the  twins  would  be  sleeping  in  their  cots  that  night ;  and 
by  some  transmission  of  thought  mother  turned  to  me 
and  said :  "  Has  Sydney  told  you,  Githa,  that  Mr.  Carlyon 
is  expected  home  to-morrow  ?  "  And  as  I  nodded,  she 
continued,  "  We  shall  have  him  in  church  on  Sunday. 
I  shall  be  very  glad  of  that."  But  I  forget  what  answer 
I  made. 

I  had  certainly  not  expected  to  see  Mr.  Carlyon  the 
very  day  after  his  return,  but  he  came.  As  it  happened, 
I  was  quite  alone.  Father  had  gone  up  to  town  for  the 
day,  and  had  taken  Sydney  with  him,  as  she  wanted  to 
spend  a  few  hours  with  Aunt  Cosie. 

Mother  and  I  had  had  a  lovely  drive  that  morning, 
and  at  luncheon  she  had  announced  her  intention  of  call- 
ing at  St.  Helen's  Towers.  Lady  Wilde  had  returned 
from  Scarborough  a  few  days  previously,  and  Dr.  Neale 
had  told  mother  that  she  was  still  far  from  well. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  only  kind  and  neighbourly  to  call," 
mother  had  observed ;  "  and  though  it  is  not  a  pleasant 
duty,  I  may  as  well  get  it  over.  But  I  shall  not  be  long, 
and  you  may  expect  me  back  to  tea " ;  and  then  she 
established  me  cosily  on  the  couch,  and  bade  me  read 
myself  to  sleep ;  but  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

It  was  one  of  those  delicious  October  days,  when  the 
air  is  as  mellow  as  old  wine.  The  room  was  full  of 
sunshine  and  flowers,  and  through  the  open  window  there 
was  a  faint,  aromatic  perfume  of  burning  wood.  The 
stillness  was  so  soothing  that  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  day- 
dream, and  my  thoughts  had  wandered  so  far  that  it  was 
a  little  difficult  to  recall  them  when  Mardie  announced 
a  visitor.  I  had  not  heard  the  name,  and  then  to  my 
surprise  I  saw  it  was  Mr.  Carlyon. 

He  came  across  the  room  so  quickly  that  I  had  no  time 
to  rouse  myself. 

375 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Was  I  wrong  to  come  in  ?  "  he  asked,  taking  my 
hand  and  looking  at  me  rather  anxiously.  "  Your  maid 
told  me  that  Mrs.  Darnell  was  out,  but  that  she  was 
coming  back  shortly ;  and  I  could  not  deny  myself  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you." 

"  Oh  no,  and  she  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,"  I 
stammered ;  "  she  has  only  gone  to  St.  Helen's  Towers." 
Why  was  it  I  felt  so  suddenly  shy  and  stupid?  I  was 
so  glad  to  see  him,  only  I  could  not  tell  him  so. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  startled  you,"  he  said  a  little 
gravely.  "  I  can  see  you  are  far  from  strong  yet  " ;  and 
then  I  knew  that  he  too  was  shocked  at  the  change  in 
me — that  he  had  not  realised  before  how  ill  I  had  been. 
He  looked  so  troubled  that  my  courage  returned. 

"  Please  sit  down,"  I  said  shyly ;  "  no,  you  will  not 
tire  me."  as  he  hesitated.  *'  I  was  not  asleep,  and  I  would 
far  rather  talk  " ;  and  then  I  asked  after  his  friend,  and 
after  that  I  felt  more  comfortable. 

He  answered  my  questions  briefly.  His  friend  was 
better,  and  he  had  brought  him  home ;  and  then  he  asked 
me  very  kindly  about  myself. 

"  I  was  not  quite  happy  about  you  when  I  went  away, 
and  your  mother's  letters  made  me  rather  anxious." 
She  had  written  to  him  more  than  once  then.  "  Gren- 
ville's  account  was  a  bit  hazy,  and  he  always  said  you 
were  better." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  soon  be  quite  well  now,"  I  returned,  and 
then  I  added  a  little  breathlessly :  "  You  know  that  things 
have  come  right,  and,  oh,  I  am  so  happy !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  returned  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  gathered  as 
much  from  your  mother's  letters.  I  think  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am  for  all  your  sakes;  good  has 
come  out  of  evil  and  you  have  not  suffered  in  vain  " ; 
and  after  this  we  had  quite  a  long  talk. 

376 


AUTUMN  VINTAGE 

He  was  so  afraid  of  tiring  me  that  he  wished  to 
break  off  more  than  once,  but  I  assured  him  that  it  did 
me  good.  Somehow  his  presence  seemed  to  rest  me — 
he  was  so  quiet  and  so  kind  and  sympathetic ;  he  was 
very  wise,  too,  for  he  would  not  let  me  dwell  on  my 
illness. 

"  You  must  forget  past  troubles,  and  only  remember 
that  God  has  been  very  good  to  you  " ;  and  then  he  said 
some  very  beautiful  and  helpful  things,  but  I  will  not 
write  them  down.  And  through  it  all  I  knew  that  he 
understood,  and  that  he  had  been  very  sorry  for  me. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  you  in  my  prayers,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  shall  certainly  not  fail  to  remember  you  in  my 
thanksgiving  " ;  and  something  in  his  look  seemed  to  calm 
me.  "  Now,  as  your  mother  is  unexpectedly  detained,  I 
must  go,  and  you  must  promise  me  to  rest." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  can  rest  now."  Did  my  face  say  more 
than  my  words?  for  he  regarded  me  very  earnestly  for 
a  moment,  as  though  he  would  say  something.  Then  he 
checked  himself,  and  with  a  low  '"  God  bless  you,"  left 
the  room ;  but,  after  all,  I  could  not  rest  for  wondering 
what  that  look  had  meant. 


377 


XXXIX 

A  GOLDEN  HOUR 


"  I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  merited 
The  gift  He  gives,  by  the  grace  He  sees ! 

The  mine-cave  praiseth  the  jewel!  the  hillside  praiseth  the  star! 
I  am  viler  than  these." 

E.  B.  Browning. 

The  fineness  which  a  hymn  or  psalm  affords 
Is,  when  the  soul  unto  the  lines  accords. 

Herrick. 

When  mother  returned  half  an  hour  later  she  seemed 
much  disappointed  at  missing  Mr.  Carlyon.  She  had 
stayed  at  St.  Helen's  Towers  longer  than  she  had 
intended,  as  she  had  found  Lady  Wilde  so  low  and 
depressed  that  she  had  not  liked  to  hurry  away. 

"  She  seemed  quite  glad  to  see  me,  Githa,"  she  went 
on,  *'  and  thanked  me  more  than  once  for  coming.  She 
is  certainly  very  changed  and  broken,  and  when  she  said 
her  troubles  had  made  an  old  woman  of  her,  she  undoubt- 
edly spoke  the  truth." 

"  Then  you  talked  of  Thurston !  "  in  some  surprise. 

"  Not  exactly !  I  certainly  mentioned  his  name  once. 
I  said  that  your  father  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  his 
steady  application  to  business ;  but  I  do  not  remember 
that  she  made  any  response — only  a  few  minutes  later 
she  said  rather  bitterly  that  her  troubles  had  added  ten 
years  to  her  age.     '  I  am  an  old  woman,  my  dear  Mrs. 

.378 


A  GOLDEN  HOUR 

Darnell,  and  the  sooner  I  have  done  with  life  the  better ' ; 
but  something  in  her  manner  warned  me  not  to  pursue 
the  subject.  She  asked  after  you  very  kindly,  Githa,  and 
she  talked  a  good  deal  about  the  Etheridges.  Mrs. 
Etheridge  had  been  very  ill  again,  and  it  was  probable 
that  they  would  winter  in  Bath.  They  were  coming  up 
to  London  shortly  for  a  week  or  two." 

"  I  suppose  she  mentioned  Rhona  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes ;  most  affectionately.  She  seems  really  much 
attached  to  the  girl.  She  said  that  she  would  like  to 
have  her  to  stay  at  St.  Helen's,  only  she  thought  it  kinder 
not  to  ask  her;  and  I  could  not  help  agreeing  with  her. 
I  should  think  St.  Helen's  Towers  the  worst  possible 
environment  for  the  poor  girl." 

Mother  asked  a  few  questions  about  Mr.  Carlyon 
after  this.  "  Your  talk  does  not  seem  to  have  tired  you, 
Githa,  for  you  have  quite  a  nice  colour;  we  shall  soon 
have  you  looking  like  your  old  self  " ;  and  there  was  a 
satisfied  expression  on  mother's  face  as  she  moved  to  the 
tea-table. 

I  had  been  so  absorbed  in  my  own  experience  that  I 
"had  hardly  talked  at  all  about  the  children  to  Mr.  Carlyon. 
I  had  merely  asked  after  them  and  sent  my  love  to  Stella, 
and  my  conscience  rather  pricked  me  for  my  selfishness. 

I  was  speaking  of  my  remissness  to  Sydney  the  next 
morning  as  we  sat  at  our  work.  Mother  had  only  just 
left  the  room  when  she  reappeared  smiling. 

"  I  have  brought  some  visitors  to  see  you,  Githa," 
she  said,  with  greater  animation  than  usual.  To  my 
surprise  Mr.  Carlyon  followed  her,  leading  the  twins. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  strange  contrast  between  the 
tall  grey-haired  man,  with  his  stately  bearing,  and  those 
two  small,  sunburnt  creatures  clinging  so  closely  to  him. 
For  once  in  her  life  Stella  seemed  shy.    Instead  of  spring- 

379 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

ing  into  my  arms  with  a  shout  of  glee,  she  rested  her 
winsome  httle  face  against  her  father's  coat-sleeve,  and 
peeped  at  me  under  her  eyelashes.  I  put  down  my  work 
and  held  out  my  arms  to  her. 

"  Why,  Stella  darling,  surely  you  have  not  forgotten 
me  in  this  short  time !  "  I  said  reproachfully ;  but  she 
only  advanced  a  few  paces  and  shook  her  curls. 

"  Boy  said  we  was  to  be  very  good,  and  not  touch 
you ;  'cos  if  we  hugged  you  too  much  you  might  break 
into  little  pieces." 

"  Girlie  broke  up  into  little  pieces,"  murmured  Cyril 
in  his  cherubic  way. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  laugh  at  this  droll  speech. 
As  usual,  Stella  was  embellishing  her  father's  injunction 
after  her  own  fancy.  As  he  explained  afterwards,  his 
actual  words  had  been :  "  Now,  children,  you  must  be 
very  good  if  I  take  you  to  see  Miss  Darnell.  She  has 
been  very  ill.  and  you  must  not  climb  upon  her  lap  and 
tire  her." 

Our  laugh  seemed  to  encourage  Stella,  and  a  roguish 
twinkle  came  into  her  eyes.  "  If  I  don't  kiss  you  hard, 
you  won't  crumble  up  into  nasty  little  bits,  will  you. 
Girlie  dear?"  she  asked  sweetly;  but  I  suppose  my  look 
was  reassuring,  for  the  next  moment  both  the  children 
were  beside  me,  with  their  little  arms  round  my  neck, 
half  strangling  me,  "  because  we  do  love  our  Girlie  so 
much,  don't  we,  Cyril?"  added  Stella. 

Mother  said  afterwards  that  it  was  one  of  the  prettiest 
sights  she  had  ever  seen.  "  The  children  were  such 
darlings,  with  their  pretty  loving  little  ways ;  and  you 
looked  such  a  child  yourself,  Githa.  I  thought  Mr. 
Carlyon  seemed  quite  touched,  though  he  was  a  little 
grave,  too.  I  expect  he  was  thinking  of  poor  Lady 
Doreen." 

380 


A  GOLDEN  HOUR 

After  this  the  children  came  every  day  to  see  me, 
though  they  were  never  allowed  to  stay  long.  Sometimes 
Cyril  brought  his  beloved  Golliwog  to  cheer  me  up,  and 
on  another  occasion  a  wee  rabbit.  This  was  rather  an 
exciting  visit,  as  Bunny  escaped  into  the  garden  and  made 
his  way  into  mother's  pet  fernery,  and  from  thence  into 
the  Wilderness,  where  he  had  nearly  disappeared  for 
good  and  all,  had  not  Sydney  succeeded  in  capturing 
him.  Both  the  children  were  in  tears  by  that  time,  and 
their  joy  at  recovering  Bunny  was  so  great  and  over- 
powering that  mother  dismissed  them  rather  hurriedly, 
and  Sydney  took  them  home.  When  she  returned  she 
told  us  with  much  amusement  that  they  had  met  Mr. 
Carlyon  at  the  Vicarage  gate,  and  that  Stella  had  pro- 
posed to  him  that  they  should  all  go  to  church  and  say 
some  nice  prayers,  because  dear  Bunny  was  safe.  "  And 
we  might  say  '  All  things  bright  and  beautiful ' ;  that 
is  quite  our  best  and  nicest  hymn,  Boy.  Cyril  and  me 
are  so  dreadfully  happy  that  we  must  shout  something." 

"  I  wonder  what  Mr.  Carlyon  said  to  that." 

"  Oh,  you  know  his  way,"  returned  Sydney.  "  He 
never  lets  them  see  how  their  queer  speeches  amuse  him. 
He  told  Stella  that  it  was  a  very  good  idea,  but  that  he 
was  too  busy  for  a  service  just  then,  and  he  thought  they 
had  better  sing  their  hymn  in  the  nursery  after  they  had 
restored  the  rabbit  to  its  hutch.  '  And  we  will  have  out 
our  flags,'  went  on  Stella,  '  and  wave  them  all  the  time 
we  sing,  and  put  on  our  nighties,  and  then  we  shall  be 
ch^r  boys,  Cyril.'    But  I  could  not  wait  to  hear  more." 

I  saw  Mr.  Carlyon  frequently  during  those  ten  days, 
but  I  was  never  alone  with  him.  More  than  once  he 
had  tea  with  us,  and  another  time  he  came  later  in  the 
evening  to  see  father.  He  and  mother  became  great 
friends.     She  always  appeared  so  much   more  like  her 

381 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

old  self  when  he  talked  to  her,  and  father  seemed  to  enjoy 
his  society.  I  do  not  remember  that  he  said  much  to  me 
during  the  visits,  but  he  was  always  quietly  observant  of 
my  comfort.  Once  he  brought  me  some  flowers,  and 
another  day  a  book  from  his  library,  which  he  recom- 
mended me  to  read,  and  he  would  say  some  little  word 
to  me  which  showed  he  thought  of  me.  Sydney  said 
more  than  once  how  kind  he  was.  "  He  always  speaks  to 
you  so  gently,  Githa,  as  though  he  knew  how  much  you 
had  suffered ;  and  then  he  is  so  nice  to  Aunt  Yvonne." 

I  was  very  sorry  to  bid  him  good-bye,  and  I  thought 
it  no  harm  to  tell  him  so ;  but  his  smile  in  return  was  a 
little  grave.  "  It  will  not  be  for  long,  I  hope,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  If  it  were  not  selfish,  I  would  say  I  am  sorry 
too ;  but  if  you  will  only  get  well  and  strong,  you  will 
make  us  all  very  happy."  I  thought  it  so  kind  of  him 
to  say  that,  and  something  in  his  look  told  me  he  meant 
it.  I  felt  a  little  dull  that  evening,  but  I  hoped  no  one 
noticed  it. 

We  speedily  settled  down  to  our  seaside  life,  and  as 
soon  as  I  had  recovered  from  the  fatigue  of  the  journey 
there  was  no  question  of  my  rapid  progress.  I  gained 
flesh  and  colour,  left  off  my  invalid  ways,  and  was  in 
the  air  as  much  as  possible.  The  sense  of  returning 
health  and  strength  was  delicious,  and  life  again  became 
joyous  to  me.  After  a  week  or  two  I  was  well  enough 
to  resume  my  rides  with  father ;  a  horse  was  hired  for 
Sydney's  use,  and  we  all  three  rode  constantly  together. 
When  father  went  up  to  town  we  took  long  drives  with 
mother;  it  was  a  source  of  great  happiness  to  us  all  to 
see  how  her  health  improved.  She  resumed  her  old 
active  habits  one  by  one.  We  heard  frequently  from  Mr. 
Carlyon :  he  always  wrote  to  mother.  He  used  to  tell 
her  about  her  pensioners  and  sick  people.     As  soon  as 

382 


A  GOLDEN  HOUR 

Ada  Martin  was  well  enough  to  be  moved  he  had  estab- 
lished her  and  her  mother  in  a  cottage  quite  close  to 
the  village  green.  Noah's  Ark  was  to  be  pulled  down, 
he  wrote,  and  two  other  cottages  had  been  condemned. 
He  generally  added  a  few  words  about  the  children,  and 
sent  me  a  kind  message.  I  think  mother  and  I  always 
enjoyed  those  letters. 

I  used  to  wonder  sometimes  if  mother  were  really 
happy,  for  at  times  she  was  strangely  absent,  and  seemed 
buried  in  thought ;  and  she  had  never  yet  lost  the  sad  look 
in  her  eyes. 

One  afternoon  we  were  alone  together — father  and 
Sydney  had  gone  for  a  long  walk,  and  it  was  dark  before 
they  returned.  We  were  sitting  in  the  firelight,  each 
busy  with  our  own  thoughts,  when,  happening  to  glance 
in  her  direction,  I  was  struck  by  this  look  of  sadness  on 
her  face ;  the  next  moment  our  eyes  met ;  I  thought  she 
started  slightly. 

"  What  is  it,  Githa  ?  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so 
intently,  my  child  ?  " 

"  I  was  only  wondering  if  you  were  quite  content 
and  happy,"  I  returned  wistfully ;  "  sometimes  you  look 
so  sad,  mother,  and  then  I  get  troubled  and  fancy  things." 
Then  mother  turned  in  her  quick  way. 

"  You  must  not  watch  me  so  closely,  Githa.  My 
darling,"  as  I  drew  back  a  little  hurt  by  her  tone,  '"'  I  do 
not  mean  to  repel  you — I  know  it  is  only  your  loving 
anxiety  on  my  account ;  you  and  I  must  not  shut  our 
hearts  to  each  other  again,  but  there  are  things  one 
cannot  well  explain.  I  am  not  unhappy,  dearest — in  the 
sense  you  mean — and  yet  there  are  times  when  I  am 
very  sad." 

"  But  why,  dear  mother,  when  we  all  love  you  so  ?  " 
Then  she  sighed  deeply. 

383 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason,''  she  returned  in  a  low 
voice ;  "  if  I  were  more  worthy  of  my  present  happiness, 
I  should  be  less  sad  at  heart,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
past  would  not  close  so  thickly  round  me.  Githa,  my 
child,  in  this  life  we  must  reap  the  harvest  of  our  own 
sowing,  and  only  the  Divine  Hand  can  '  restore  to  us  the 
years  that  the  locust  hath  eaten  '  " ;  and  there  was  the 
old  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

I  slipped  my  hand  into  hers.  I  wanted  her  to  realise, 
without  words,  how  entirely  I  understood  and  felt  for 
her. 

My  mother's  complex  nature  had  ceased  to  be  a  sealed 
book  that  I  could  neither  open  nor  read ;  since  that  day 
when  her  indomitable  will  yielded  to  her  maternal  love 
and  fear,  she  was  no  longer  an  enigma  or  a  mystery  to 
me.  Every  day  I  seemed  to  grow  nearer  to  her;  and 
as  my  awe  lessened,  my  love  increased. 

My  intuition  gave  me  the  right  clue  now. 

"  Mother,"  I  whispered  presently,  "  I  think  I  under- 
stand. You  have  forgiven  father,  and  that  is  why  you 
are  happy;  but  you  are  sad  too,  because  you  have  not 
forgiven  yourself." 

She  looked  at  me  in  some  surprise. 

"  How  could  you  guess  that,  Githa  ?  You  are  young 
to  have  such  thoughts ;  but  it  is  true,  dear  child — God 
knows  it  is  true.  If  I  live  to  old  age — if  the  years  of 
my  life  were  to  be  many  and  full  of  blessing — I  should 
still  carry  about  with  me  the  shadow  of  a  grievous  mis- 
take, for  which  I  could  never,  never  forgive  myself " ; 
and  she  sighed  heavily. 

"  Dear  mother — dearest  mother !  "  and  at  my  tone 
her  arms  closed  round  me. 

"  Do  not  fret,  darling ;  it  is  better  so.  Some  of  us 
must  '  work  out  our  own  salvation  with  fear  and  trem- 

384 


A  GOLDEN  HOUR 

bling.'  If  we  break  the  law  of  love,  and  fail  in  charity 
to  our  brethren,  we  deserve  to  suffer;  but  God  has  been 
so  merciful,  Githa,  and  He  has  given  you  back  to  me, 
my  blessing  " ;  and  then  for  a  little  while  we  held  each 
other  silently.  But  that  night  and  ever  afterwards  I 
added  a  new  petition  to  my  prayers — that  my  mother's 
noble  but  suffering  heart  might  find  rest. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  weeks  passed  rapidly,  and 
that  very  little  happened  to  break  their  pleasant  routine; 
but  I  must  recall  one  little  episode  which  might  have 
ended  sadly. 

We  were  going  to  ride  that  morning,  and  father  and 
I  were  standing  on  the  steps  waiting  for  the  horses  to 
be  brought  round,  when  we  saw  a  motor-car  coming 
round  the  corner,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  small  child, 
leading  another  still  smaller,  was  crossing  the  road ; 
there  was  a  dog  with  them.  It  was  all  so  instantaneous 
that  I  scarcely  knew  what  happened.  Father  rushed  into 
the  road ;  some  one  screamed — I  think  it  was  Sydney ; 
a  bicycle  had  come  from  somewhere  and  had  collided 
with  the  motor ;  the  dog  was  yelping — the  children  cry- 
ing— father  was  nowhere.  As  I  flew  down  the  steps,  he 
rose  from  the  ground;  he  had  a  child  tucked  under  his 
arm. 

"  It  is  all  right,  Gipsy !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  saw  my 
scared  face.  "  Don't  be  frightened ;  no  one  is  killed  or 
even  hurt ;  only  this  gentleman's  bicycle  is  damaged,  I 
am  afraid." 

"  It  was  a  near  shave,  sir,"  observed  the  young  man 
civilly;  "  the  motor  prevented  my  seeing  you,  or  I  would 
have  stopped  sooner.  I  believe  the  dog  was  run  over, 
but  he  is  more  frightened  than  hurt." 

Father  nodded  and  laughed.  He  waited  to  give  the 
children  pennies  and  to  pat  the  dog;  then  he  went  back 
25  38s 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

with  me  to  the  house  to  brush  the  dust  from  his  clothes. 

"  Father,"  I  panted,  "  you  might  have  been  killed 
when  that  bicycle  knocked  you  and  the  child  down.  I 
don't  know  how  you  escaped." 

Father  made  a  wry  face.  *'  Well,  neither  do  I,  Gip ; 
but  the  little  brats  are  safe,  and  I  am  glad  I  risked  it. 
As  my  friend  the  cyclist  remarked,  '  it  was  a  near 
shave.'  " 

We  went  up  the  steps  arm  in  arm.  Father  was  trying 
to  laugh  it  off ;  but  when  he  saw  mother's  face  he  grew 
suddenly  grave.  She  was  white  as  death,  and  seemed 
hardly  able  to  support  herself. 

"  I  am  not  hurt,  Yvonne,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm 
round  her.  "  I  only  had  a  roll  in  the  dust,  and  tore  my 
coat.  Shut  the  door,  some  one ;  there  seems  quite  a  little 
crowd  collecting,  and  I  don't  feel  exactly  presentable." 

I  don't  know  what  mother  said  to  him,  she  spoke 
so  low ;  but  I  saw  her  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
then  he  kissed  her. 

We  had  a  lovely  ride,  which  we  all  enjoyed ;  but  I 
thought  father  was  a  little  quiet  and  thoughtful.  Later 
in  the  afternoon,  mother  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  go 
with  her  to  Evensong,  or  if  I  would  be  too  tired;  but 
of  course  I  denied  this — I  always  loved  to  accompany 
her.  We  were  both  a  little  surprised  when  father  said 
he  would  come  too;  but  I  saw  mother  flush  as  though 
she  were  pleased.  I  always  enjoyed  Evensong  at  St. 
Matthias,  but  never  more  than  I  did  that  afternoon  when 
father  was  with  us. 

I  had  made  him  pass  into  the  seat  before  me,  and 
he  sat  between  us.  I  am  sure  we  all  felt  it  was  a  thanks- 
giving service. 

There  were  only  a  few  worshippers  that  evening. 
The  partially-lighted  nave  and  the  long,  shadowy  aisles 

386 


A  GOLDEN  HOUR 

served  to  deepen  the  sense  of  devotion  and  awe ;  a  vague 
consciousness  of  silent  presences  seemed  to  thrill  me; 
the  boys'  sweet  voices  chanting  the  Magnificat  were  quite 
seraphic. 

When  the  service  was  over  we  lingered  awhile.  The 
choristers  were  going  to  practise  their  anthem  for  the 
following  Sunday,  and  we  generally  stayed  to  listen  to 
them. 

To  my  surprise  it  was  father's  favourite,  which  I  had 
often  sung  to  him  on  Sunday  evenings  at  St.  Olave's 
Lodge.  "  Oh,  rest  in  the  Lord,  wait  patiently  for  Him 
and  He  will  give  thee  thy  heart's  desire."  I  glanced  at 
father,  but  he  was  looking  at  mother.  Was  it  my  fancy 
that  in  the  dim  light  her  hand  moved  slowly  to  meet  his? 
Oh,  that  Evensong  at  St.  Matthias  was  always  a  sweet 
memory  to  me ;  it  was  one  of  those  golden  hours  which 
come  to  us  in  life  and  seem  to  link  earth  with  heaven. 


3?7 


XL 

"I  HAVE  BROUGHT  YOUR  MISTRESS  HOME" 


Never  had   man   more  joyful   day   than   this, 
Who  heaven  would  hepe  with  bliss. 
Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  livelong  day; 
This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 

Spenser. 

Some  days  after  this  mother  told  us  a  very  pleasant 
piece  of  news — Thurston  was  to  spend  Christmas  with  us, 
and  to  stay  until  after  the  New  Year. 

"  Your  father  wishes  it,"  she  continued,  addressing 
me ;  "  he  says  Thurston  needs  a  change ;  that  he  is  look- 
ing thin  and  peaky,  and  that  a  little  sea  air  will  do  him 
good." 

"  And  when  does  he  come  ?  "  I  asked,  for  Sydney 
remained  silent.  She  was  sketching  some  little  fishing- 
boats  which  had  taken  her  fancy,  but  I  saw  that  her 
pencil  was  idle — the  unexpected  news  had  evidently 
deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech ;  but  I  saw  her 
shield  her  face  with  her  hand  to  hide  her  telltale  flush, 

"  Your  father  has  arranged  that  he  is  to  bring  Mrs. 
Bevan  down  with  him.  I  believe  they  are  to  arrive  the 
day  before  Christmas  Eve,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  Ben  is  to  come  too."  Sydney  made  some  excuse  to 
leave  the  room  after  this — I  think  she  wanted  bread- 
crumbs or  some  such  trifle.  I  took  advantage  of  her 
brief  absence  to  ask  mother  if  she  were  pleased  that 
Thurston  was  coming. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  him,"  she  returned 
388 


I  BROUGHT  YOUR  MISTRESS  HOME 

cordially ;  "  and  the  poor  boy  certainly  deserves  a  holiday, 
for  he  has  been  working  well  all  these  months.  I  feel 
I  can  trust  them  both,  Githa.  Thurston  knows  that  there 
can  be  no  question  of  an  engagement  for  six  months  at 
least,  so  he  is  bound  to  honour  not  to  speak  to  Sydney 
until  we  give  him  leave.  They  are  both  on  their  proba- 
tion at  present;  but  Thurston  has  behaved  so  well  that 
I  do  not  think  either  your  father  or  I  would  wish  to 
put  him  to  too  severe  a  test." 

I  was  delighted  to  hear  her  say  this,  and  I  rejoiced 
that  Sydney  should  have  this  unexpected  happiness.  I 
knew  how  she  had  missed  Thurston,  and  how  she  had 
longed  to  see  him ;  and  that  with  all  her  brave  efforts 
it  was  not  always  easy  for  her  to  be  cheerful. 

"  Are  you  glad,  Sydney  dear,"  I  asked  rather  mis- 
chievously, when  I  found  myself  alone  with  her  that  day 
— "  are  you  glad  that  Thurston  is  coming  to  stay  with 
us  ?  "    But  she  answered  with  her  usual  sweet  composure. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  Githa,  and  I  think  it  was  so  dear 
and  kind  of  Uncle  Philip  to  ask  him  "  ;  for  Sydney  always 
called  father  by  that  name  now.  He  had  suggested  it 
as  less  formal  than  Mr.  Darnell — "  besides,  I  consider 
myself  your  adopted  uncle  now,"  he  had  once  said ;  for 
he  and  Sydney  were  the  best  of  friends. 

We  were  all  delighted  to  see  Aunt  Cosie  and 
Thurston ;  and  as  father  had  prophesied,  we  spent  a 
very  happy  Christmas. 

I  thought  Thurston  greatly  improved :  he  had  gained 
in  manliness  and  looked  older ;  he  was  handsomer  than 
ever,  though  certainly  rather  thin  and  worn,  and  it  was 
a  little  sad  to  see  a  line  or  two  on  his  forehead — he  was 
young  to  have  such  traces  of  care  and  anxiety. 

It  was  touching  to  see  him  and  Sydney  together, 
their  delight  in  each  other's  society  was  so  great.    They 

389 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

were  always  together.  If  Sydney  were  absent  from  the 
room  for  more  than  a  few  minutes,  Thurston  was  rest- 
less until  she  returned,  and  with  the  freemasonry  of  love 
they  seemed  to  understand  each  other  without  the  medium 
of  words. 

Mother  left  them  perfectly  free.  She  never  did  things 
by  halves.  When  she  trusted  any  one  she  did  so  abso- 
lutely and  entirely.  So  she  never  expressed  surprise  or 
disapproval  when  she  saw  Thurston  and  Sydney  walking 
up  and  down  on  the  sea  front  with  only  Ben  to  chaperone 
them,  or  noticed,  as  she  probably  did,  that  during  our 
rides  they  were  generally  some  little  distance  in  the  rear. 
Father  would  have  his  joke  sometimes,  but  mother  never 
made  any  comment.  They  were  both  so  natural  and 
simple,  so  frankly  absorbed  in  each  other,  and  so  unfeign- 
edly  happy,  that  I  have  seen  mother  look  at  them  until 
the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

It  was  during  this  visit  that  Thurston  took  heart  of 
grace  and  went  down  to  Bayfield  to  see  his  grandmother ; 
but  his  mission  was  not  successful. 

I  was  not  in  the  room  when  he  returned,  but  Sydney 
told  me  all  about  it. 

Thurston  had  confessed  to  her  and  mother  that  he 
had  been  much  struck  by  the  change  in  his  grandmother's 
appearance.  She  seemed  to  him  to  have  aged  consid- 
erably during  these  few  months.  For  the  first  moments 
he  thought  that  she  was  pleased  to  see  him.  He  had 
entered  unannounced,  so  as  to  take  her  by  surprise,  and 
she  had  turned  suddenly  pale  and  put  out  her  hand  to 
him,  and  had  let  him  kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  but  after  a 
little  she  relapsed  into  the  old  hard,  dry  manner.  The 
first  remark  was  certainly  not  reassuring.  She  hoped 
he  had  come  to  his  senses,  and  that  this  unlooked-for 
visit  was  to  tell  her  so.     But  he  had  evaded  this. 

390 


I  BROUGHT  YOUR  MISTRESS  HOME 

"  '  I  trust  I  am  welcome,  Gran,'  Thurston  had  said, 
in  his  most  conciliatory  manner.  *  We  have  not  met  for 
so  long  that  I  hoped  you  would  be  a  little  kind  to  me.' 
But  she  had  answered  him  with  the  old  imperiousness. 

"  *  I  shall  be  always  glad  to  see  my  grandson  when 
he  has  learnt  to  behave  himself,  and  to  apologise  for 
past  misconduct ' ;  and  then  his  grandmother  went  on  to 
tell  him  that  his  rooms  were  always  kept  in  readiness  for 
him,  and  that  his  horses  were  in  the  stable. 

" '  I  am  a  weak  old  woman,  Thurston,'  she  went  on, 
and  her  voice  was  less  harsh,  '  but  you  are  all  the  kith  and 
kin  that  remains  to  me.  If  you  will  only  accept  my  con- 
ditions and  make  peace  with  that  poor,  injured  girl, 
things  shall  be  as  they  always  have  been  between  us,  and 
I  will  never  reproach  you  for  leaving  my  roof.'  " 

"  Of  course  I  could  not  tell  her  that,"  Thurston  said 
afterwards  to  Sydney ;  "  but  it  cut  me  to  the  heart  to 
hear  her  speak  so  kindly.  I  felt  then  that  she  really 
cared  for  me,  and  wanted  me  back,  but  that  her  will  was 
too  obstmate  to  yield. 

"  I  tried  to  be  patient  and  make  her  see  things  in 
their  true  light,"  he  continued,  "  but  it  was  no  use,  and 
when  Gran  saw  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to  change 
my  mind  about  Rhona,  she  got  every  moment  more  angry 
and  bitter.  It  was  no  use  staying ;  she  would  only  have 
excited  and  made  herself  ill.  So  I  went  away.  I  just 
went  round  to  the  stables  to  see  old  Rufus  and  the  Major, 
and,  of  course,  the  dogs  were  so  wild  with  joy  that  we 
could  scarcely  bring  them  to  order. 

"  I  had  luncheon  at  the  Vicarage.  I  went  to  see 
Laddie  and  to  have  a  talk  with  Mr.  Carlyon,  and  he  was 
very  kind,  and  went  with  me  to  the  station." 

"  Do  you  know  what  Mr.  Carlyon  said  to  Thurston  ?  " 
I  asked  Sydney. 

391 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"  No,  he  only  said  that  Mr.  Carlyon  was  very  sym- 
pathetic, and  sorry  for  his  disappointment,  and  had 
begged  him  not  to  lose  hope." 

"  '  Your  grandmother  was  pleased  to  see  you  that 
first  moment,'  Mr.  Carlyon  had  added ;  '  you  may  depend 
upon  it  that  her  heart  secretly  yearns  after  you.  You 
must  give  her  time,  my  dear  fellow.  She  has  an  obstinate 
nature,  and  it  is  not  easy  for  her  to  yield,  but  one  of  these 
days  her  loneliness  will  be  too  much  for  her ' ;  and  then, 
to  Thurston's  surprise,  he  advised  him  to  wait  a  few 
months  and  go  again." 

Thurston  seemed  so  cast  down  and  out  of  spirits  that 
evening  that  we  were  all  very  sorry  for  him,  and  tried 
our  best  to  comfort  him. 

Mother  was  the  most  successful.  She  talked  to  him 
for  a  long  time  the  next  morning.  He  looked  so  much 
more  cheerful  when  he  rejoined  me  in  the  drawing-room 
that  I  could  not  help  asking  him  if  she  had  done  him 
any  good,  and  I  was  relieved  when  he  replied  in  the 
affirmative. 

Of  course  he  asked  where  Sydney  was — this  was 
always  his  first  question.  And  when  I  told  him  she  was 
writing  a  letter  for  Aunt  Cosie,  he  condescended  to  tell 
me  a  little  about  his  talk  with  mother. 

"  Mrs.  Darnell  was  awfully  kind,"  he  observed.  "  She 
gave  me  a  lot  of  good  advice,  and  then  she  told  me  that 
they  would  always  expect  me  to  spend  my  Sundays  at 
St.  Olave's  Lodge,  unless  I  had  some  other  engagement ; 
that  Mr.  Darnell  wished  it ;  and  that  she  wished  it  too. 
Oh,  she  could  not  have  been  kinder,  Githa.  I  shall  not 
mind  the  week's  work  half  so  much,  now  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  look  forward  to  those  Sundays."  Poor,  dear 
Thurston,  he  certainly  looked  happier  after  that. 

We  were  all  very  sorry  to  lose  Thurston  when  his 
392 


I  BROUGHT  YOUR  MISTRESS  HOME 

visit  came  to  an  end,  but  as  we  were  to  leave  St.  Leonard's 
in  another  three  weeks,  we  should  soon  see  him  again. 
Aunt  Cosie  stayed  for  another  week,  and  then  she  went 
back  and  took  Sydney  with  her,  to  stay  at  Fairlawn  until 
we  were  all  settled  in  at  St.  Olave's.  It  was  just  like 
Aunt  Cosie  to  think  of  the  right  thing;  her  wise  head 
and  kind  heart  told  her  that  it  was  better  for  Sydney  to 
be  away  just  then,  and  that  I  should  be  alone  with  my 
parents. 

I  had  had  a  very  pleasant  time  at  St.  Leonard's,  but 
I  was  glad  to  be  going  home.  I  used  to  wake  up  in  the 
morning  with  such  a  happy  beating  at  my  heart  to  think 
of  mother  being  there  too.  It  must  have  been  nearly 
sixteen  years  since  she  left  St.  Olave's,  and  I  wondered 
how  she  would  feel  when  she  saw  it  again.  But  she 
never  spoke  of  it,  or  alluded  in  any  way  to  the  home- 
coming; only,  as  the  time  grew  nearer,  she  became  more 
silent  and  abstracted. 

We  were  all  very  busy  the  last  few  days.  There  were 
no  more  rides,  for  the  horses  had  gone  back  to  London. 
We  went  to  St.  Matthias  the  last  evening,  but  that  time 
mother  and  I  were  alone. 

I  think  we  were  all  a  little  nervous  the  next  morning, 
and  rather  avoided  each  other's  society.  Mother  shut 
herself  in  her  own  room  with  the  pretence  of  finishing 
her  packing ;  father  had  some  business  letters  to  write ; 
and  Roy  and  I  wandered  up  and  down  the  Parade. 

We  were  to  start  after  an  early  luncheon,  and  I 
remember  that  none  of  us  ate  much. 

When  we  reached  the  station  father,  as  usual,  bought 
papers  and  magazines  to  beguile  the  journey,  and,  of 
course,  we  each  took  one;  but  I  do  not  think  mother 
turned  a  single  page  of  her  magazine.  Father  buried 
himself  in  his  Times,  but  when  I  glanced  at  him  now 

393 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

and  then  he  did  not  seem  to  be  reading;  there  was  a 
puckered  line  on  his  forehead,  as  though  he  were  deep 
in  thought. 

I  felt  thankful  when  the  journey  was  at  an  end  and 
we  were  driving  from  the  station.  Father  spoke  to 
mother  once  or  twice  in  a  low  voice,  but  she  scarcely 
answered  him.  She  had  grown  very  pale,  and  when  we 
came  in  sight  of  St.  Olave's  Lodge  her  lips  were  so  white 
that  I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  She  must  have 
noticed  how  concerned  I  looked,  for  she  slightly  shook 
her  head. 

When  the  carriage  stopped  I  saw  the  door  was  open, 
and  Hallett  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  were  awaiting  us.  Father 
offered  his  arm  to  mother,  but  as  she  took  it  she  paused 
a  moment  and  held  out  her  hand  to  me.  My  intuition  told 
me  what  she  wished :  she  would  enter  her  old  home 
between  her  husband  and  child. 


I  have  only  a  vague  recollection  of  the  next  few 
minutes.  I  heard  father  say  rather  quickly :  "  I  have 
brought  your  mistress  home,  Hallett  "  ;  then  mother  shook 
hands  with  him  and  Mrs.  Kennedy ;  and  after  that  father 
took  mother  into  the  drawing-room,  but  I  did  not  at 
once  follow  them.  When  I  did  so,  I  saw  her  sitting  in 
an  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  with  her  bonnet  and  furs  laid 
aside.  I  went  up  and  kissed  her,  and  then  I  saw  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  But  before  I  had  time  to  whisper 
how  glad — how  very  glad — I  was,  father  asked  me  to 
pour  out  the  tea  ;  but  he  would  not  let  me  wait  on  mother : 
he  took  the  cup  from  my  hand  and  carried  it  to  her 
himself. 

Mother  recovered  herself  after  a  time,  and  a  little 
colour  came  back  to  her  face.     Then  father  told  her 

394 


I  BROUGHT  YOUR  MISTRESS  HOME 

that  he  should  take  her  to  her  room,  and  that  she  must 
rest  and  be  quiet  until  dinner. 

"  Gipsy  must  come  too,"  he  added,  in  his  kind  way. 
And  then  I  knew  he  wanted  me  to  see  what  he  had  done. 

The  rooms  were  so  changed  by  their  new  decorations 
and  furniture  that  I  hardly  knew  where  I  was.  The  old 
schoolroom  had  been  transformed  into  a  charming 
boudoir. 

Everything  was  so  beautiful — there  was  such  evidence 
of  loving  thought  in  every  arrangement — that  I  could 
not  help  crying  a  little,  and  I  went  outside  for  a  moment 
to  compose  myself. 

It  was  then  that  I  heard  mother  say :  "  The  rooms 
are  perfect,  Philip ;  but  why  have  you  been  so  good  to 
me?    I  do  not  deserve  it." 

And  then  I  heard  his  answer:  "  Because  I  wanted  you 
to  be  sure  of  your  husband's  welcome,  Yvonne,  my  love." 
But  the  next  moment  I  stole  softly  away. 


I  think  we  were  all  very  happy  that  evening,  although 
we  were  so  quiet  and  talked  little.  After  dinner  I  played 
to  them,  and  they  sat  hand  in  hand  and  listened  to  me. 
I  played  mother's  favourite  pieces  from  Chopin,  and  then 
I  strayed  into  an  anthem  or  two.  Was  it  some  subtle 
instinct  that  made  me  finish  with  the  anthem  that  we 
had  heard  at  St.  Matthias :  "  Oh,  rest  in  the  Lord,  wait 
patiently  for  Him,  and  He  will  give  thee  thy  heart's 
desire"?  As  I  played  the  last  chord,  father  came  softly 
behind  me  and  kissed  my  hair. 

"  My  little  blessing,"  he  whispered,  "  you  must  often 
play  that  to  me."  And  then  I  saw  he  was  alone:  mother 
had  left  the  room. 

When  Sydney  came  to  us  a  week  later  she  seemed 
395 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

quite  surprised  to  find  how  comfortably  we  had  settled 
down  into  the  new  life. 

"  Aunt  Yvonne  seems  as  much  at  home  as  though 
she  had  been  here  for  years,"  she  observed  to  me  in  a  tone 
that  expressed  her  amazement.  Mother's  quiet  serenity 
seemed  to  perplex  Sydney ;  but  I  only  smiled  and  left  the 
remark  unanswered. 

It  was  no  mystery  to  me.  I  knew  mother  had  braced 
herself  to  perform  a  difficult  task  with  the  whole  force 
of  her  strong  will,  and  that  she  was  not  likely  to  fail. 

The  very  next  morning  she  had  spoken  to  me  of  her 
intention  to  take  the  reins  of  household  management  in 
her  own  hands ;  she  knew  how  willing  I  was  to  give  them 
up.  She  was  a  born  ruler,  and  before  many  days  were 
over  Mrs.  Kennedy  and  Hallett  had  succumbed  to  her 
influence. 

There  was  something  queenly  in  the  way  she  moved 
and  spoke  that  seemed  to  fascinate  them.  She  had  such 
a  clear,  concise  manner  of  giving  her  orders  that  no  one 
could  misunderstand  her  meaning  for  a  moment,  and 
she  was  so  tolerant  of  their  opinions  and  so  thoughtful 
for  their  comfort  that  the  old  servants  soon  lost  their 
hearts  to  her. 

Mardie  told  me  once  in  an  amused  voice  that  Hallett 
had  remarked  to  her,  that  his  new  mistress  was  the 
grandest  lady  that  he  had  ever  seen :  "  She  is  what  I  call 
a  noble  figure  of  a  woman,  though  she  is  none  so  young- 
looking  with  her  white  hair."  And  then  Mrs.  Kennedy 
had  chimed  in,  that  she  was  a  clever  lady,  and  that  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  work  under  a  person  who  knew  how 
to  appreciate  good  cooking. 

"  You  see.  Miss  Githa,"  persisted  Mardie,  "  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy was  a  bit  set-up  that  day  because  the  mistress  had 
praised  her  savouries." 

396 


I  BROUGHT  YOUR  MISTRESS  HOME 

Mother  smiled  when  I  repeated  this  to  her,  but  I 
think  she  was  pleased  too.  "  I  want  them  to  like  me," 
she  said  quite  seriously ;  "  they  are  such  faithful,  good 
creatures,  and  have  done  their  duty  all  these  years," 
But  I  knew  why  the  old  sadness  came  into  her  eyes  that 
moment.  She  was  thinking  of  "  the  years  the  locust 
hath  eaten  " ;  when  her  place  had  been  vacant,  and  the 
shadow  of  that  long  misunderstanding  had  darkened  her 
husband's  home. 


397 


XLI 

MY  WOMAN'S  HERITAGE 


Take  heed  thou  bless  the  day  on  which  Love  took  possession 
of  thee,  for  thou  oughtest  so  to  do. — Dante. 

While  we  were  at  St.  Leonard's  father  told  me  that  my 
mother  had  expressed  a  great  wish  that  my  portrait 
should  be  painted,  and  that  on  our  return  to  town  he 
intended  to  have  it  done. 

He  had  given  the  commission  to  a  young  artist  in 
whom  he  was  much  interested.  "  Barton  is  a  clever 
fellow,"  he  explained  to  me ;  "  he  has  plenty  of  talent, 
and  will  make  his  mark  yet ;  but  at  the  present  moment 
he  is  rather  in  low  water.  He  was  foolish  enough  to  get 
married  six  months  ago,  and  they  have  not  a  penny 
between  them.  Dorothy  Barton  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
girls  I  ever  saw ;  but  they  are  just  a  pair  of  infatuated 
infants,  and  their  knowledge  of  the  world  is  nil.  He 
paints  pot-boilers  and  charming  little  sketchy  things ; 
but  he  is  very  anxious  to  get  a  picture  into  the  Royal 
Academy.  He  says  if  he  could  only  paint  a  good  portrait 
he  might  get  other  orders ;  so  we  will  give  him  a  helping 
hand,  Gipsy." 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  this  description  of 
father's  protege,  and  a  few  days  after  we  had  returned 
to  St.  Olave's  he  took  me  to  Mr.  Barton's  studio  to 
arrange  about  the  sittings.  We  spent  a  very  pleasant 
afternoon.    The  little  bride  made  tea  for  us  in  the  studio 

398 


MY  WOMAN'S  HERITAGE 

— such  a  bare,  ugly  place  it  was — and  I  took  quite  a  fancy 
to  the  pretty,  childish  little  creature  and  the  tall  young 
artist  with  his  clever,  eager  face. 

We  soon  settled  matters,  and  after  that  I  went  nearly 
every  day  to  the  studio.  Either  mother  or  Sydney  accom- 
panied me.  We  soon  grew  friendly  with  the  Bartons, 
and  Dorothy  would  often  bring  her  work  and  keep  us 
company.  I  quite  enjoyed  those  sittings.  Mr.  Barton 
knew  how  to  interest  me,  and  as  he  was  a  rapid  worker 
it  was  pleasant  to  watch  his  progress. 

The  picture  would  be  a  success — even  father,  who 
was  rather  a  severe  critic,  allowed  that.  "  It  is  lifelike, 
Gipsy,"  he  would  say,  standing  before  it.  But  when  it 
was  finished,  and  I  had  the  opportunity  of  studying  it 
at  my  leisure,  I  thought  it  far  too  flattering. 

Father  had  insisted  on  his  painting  me  in  my  white 
chiffon  dress,  and  Mr.  Barton  had  filled  my  hands  with 
loose,  golden  daffodils,  which  looked  like  yellow  sunshine. 

All  the  accessories  of  the  picture  were  perfect ;  but 
could  that  girl  with  the  deep,  thoughtful  eyes  and  those 
masses  of  golden  brown  hair  be  really  Githa  Darnell  ? 

Something  whispered  to  me  that  it  was  beautiful,  but 
that  it  could  not  be  true.  "  It  is  far,  far  too  good,"  I 
said  to  mother  afterwards.  "  It  may  be  like  me,  as  you 
and  father  say — and  I  am  very  glad  you  are  pleased  and 
satisfied — in  my  opinion  it  is  idealised."  But  mother  only 
smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  you  vain,  Githa,  but  we  all 
think  it  a  good  likeness,  and  certainly  not  flattered."  And 
after  that  I  thought  it  was  best  to  say  no  more. 

Mr.  Barton  always  declared  that  that  picture  made 
his  fortune.  It  certainly  brought  him  plenty  of  orders 
for  portraits.  It  was  in  the  Royal  Academy  that  May, 
and  was  well  hung,  and  all  our  friends  and  acquaintances 

399 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

admired  it  greatly.  One  afternoon  when  the  picture  was 
near  completion,  I  had  gone  to  the  studio  that  Mr,  Barton 
might  put  some  finishing  touches — he  was  not  satisfied 
with  the  hands,  and  wished  to  paint  them  again.  It  was 
not  a  long  sitting,  and  when  it  was  over  Sydney  proposed 
that  we  should  have  tea  with  Aunt  Cosie,  and  so  it  was 
that  we  missed  an  unexpected  visitor  to  St.  Olave's  Lodge, 
who  had  been  waiting  long  for  our  return. 

"  Who  do  you  think  has  been  here,  girls  ?  "  asked  my 
mother,  as  we  entered  the  drawing-room.  But  I  did 
not  need  to  be  told ;  I  knew  very  well. 

"  Actually  Mr.  Carlyon,"  she  went  on.  "  He  was 
here  for  two  hours ;  indeed  he  only  left  about  half  an  hour 
ago.  We  were  hoping  every  minute  that  you  would 
come  in,  and  so  he  stayed  on.  He  seemed  quite  disap- 
pointed to  miss  you  both." 

I  wondered  if  he  were  half  as  disappointed  as  I  was. 
I  could  not  trust  myself  to  reply.  Sydney  was  protesting 
that  it  was  all  her  fault ;  that  she  had  asked  me  to  go  to 
Aunt  Cosie's,  and  that  if  we  had  only  gone  straight  home 
w^e  should  certainly  have  seen  him ;  and  then  she  asked 
the  very  question  I  was  about  to  ask — how  long  he  would 
be  in  town. 

"  He  is  only  staying  one  night,"  returned  mother ; 
"  he  goes  back  to  Bayfield  to-morrow  afternoon.  Your 
father  came  in  before  he  left,  and  he  wanted  him  to  stay 
to  dinner,  but  Mr.  Carlyon  had  an  engagement  for  the 
evening.  They  went  off  together.  Your  father  said  he 
would  like  a  walk.    They  were  going  across  the  Park." 

"  I  wish  we  had  come  straight  home,  Githa,"  repeated 
Sydney. 

"  He  left  kind  messages  for  you  both,  and  the  twins 
had  sent  lots  of  love.  Your  father  told  him  about  the 
picture,  Githa,  and  he  said  that  he  should  certainly  see  it, 

400 


MY  WOMAN'S  HERITAGE 

as  he  hoped  to  come  tip  in  the  middle  of  May  for  a  week 
or  fortnight.  I  thought  he  was  looking  extremely  well — 
more  so  than  I  have  ever  seen  him." 

The  dressing-bell  sounded  just  then,  and  Sydney  and 
I  hurried  away.  I  had  a  dull,  aching  sense  of  disap- 
pointment all  the  evening.  True,  he  would  be  here  again 
in  May ;  but  that  would  be  five  or  six  weeks  hence. 

Mother  petted  me  because  she  said  I  was  tired,  and 
that  she  would  be  glad  when  the  sittings  were  at  an  end ; 
and  I  was  obliged  to  let  her  believe  that  they  were  the 
cause  of  my  fatigue.  Once  or  twice  that  evening  I  won- 
dered if  father  were  tired  too ;  he  was  so  quiet,  and  seemed 
plunged  in  a  brown  study,  and  I  almost  fancied  there  was 
an  unusual  shade  on  his  face.  I  saw  mother  looking  at 
him  as  though  she  noticed  it  too ;  but  he  would  not  allow 
that  anything  was  wrong,  and  as  I  saw  he  did  not  care  to 
be  questioned,  I  asked  Sydney  to  sing  her  prettiest  songs 
to  cheer  him,  for  I  could  not  sing  that  night.  So  I  took  a 
book  and  sat  close  to  father,  and  slipped  my  hand  under 
his  arm ;  but  though  I  turned  the  pages  the  story  did  not 
interest  me :  it  was  a  stupid,  improbable  tale,  I  thought. 

Of  course  Thurston  came  to  us  every  Sunday — he 
always  joined  us  in  the  church  porch  after  service,  and 
walked  back  with  us.  How  he  and  Sydney  enjoyed  those 
Sundays !  In  the  afternoons  we  generally  took  the  dogs 
for  a  walk,  and  we  always  went  round  to  the  stables  with 
some  delicacy,  in  the  shape  of  carrots  or  sugar,  for  the 
horses.  After  tea  we  had  sacred  music  until  church 
time.  Sometimes  when  mother  was  tired,  father  or  I 
would  stay  with  her ;  but  Sydney  and  Thurston  never 
missed.  Now  and  then  we  saw  him  in  the  course  of  the 
week,  when  we  went  to  a  theatre  or  concert — father 
always  took  a  seat  for  him ;  so,  on  the  whole,  he  and 

A 
26  401 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Sydney  had  a  good  time.  They  were  so  very  happy  that 
I  am  afraid  I  sometimes  envied  them  a  little ;  it  seemed 
to  me  such  a  wonderful  thing  for  two  people  to  be  all  the 
world  to  each  other.  I  could  see  that  Thurston's  ideas,  his 
opinions  and  tastes,  completely  dominated  Sydney.  They 
seemed  to  think  alike  on  most  subjects.     I  wondered 

how  I  should  feel  if  any  one but  I  never  would  pursue 

this  thought. 

When  the  Royal  Academy  was  open,  of  course  we 
took  Thurston  to  see  the  portrait,  and  he  highly  approved 
of  it.  Father  always  called  it  Titania.  He  had  given  it 
the  name.  He  was  immensely  proud  of  it,  and  always 
enjoyed  hearing  our  friends'  opinions.  I  remember  one 
of  them,  a  very  clever  woman,  commenting  on  the  strange, 
far-away  look  in  the  eyes.  "  I  have  never  seen  that 
expression  on  your  face,  Githa,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  as 
though  you  had  seen  some  vision.  It  is  not  exactly  sad, 
and  yet  some  people  might  say  so ;  but  there  is  something 
indefinable  and  mysterious."  But  I  confess  I  hardly 
understood  this. 

I  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Brabazon's  odd  speech  one 
May  afternoon  as  I  sat  at  my  embroidery  by  the  open 
window.  It  was  an  ideal  May  day.  The  air  was  sweet 
with  the  pink  and  white  hawthorn,  and  the  river  was 
sparkling  in  the  sunshine — a  day  when  it  was  good  to 
be  alive,  and  to  thank  God  for  youth  and  health  and  all 
the  bounties  of  nature,  I  had  had  an  early  ride  with 
father  that  morning,  so  when  mother  proposed  going  to 
Fairlawn,  I  told  Sydney  that  I  felt  lazy,  and  wanted  to 
get  on  with  my  work,  and  she  good-naturedly  offered 
herself  in  my  stead. 

Mother  had  been  planning  something  very  pleasant 
that  morning.  She  had  asked  me  if  I  should  like  to  go 
down  with  her  to  Bayfield  early  in  June,  to  spend  a  week 

402 


MY  WOMAN'S  HERITAGE 

or  ten  days  at  Prior's  Cot.  "  I  thought  it  would  be  nice 
if  you  and  I  went  by  ourselves,  Githa,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
then  your  father  could  come  down  for  the  week  end." 

I  had  been  charmed  with  this  idea,  and  had  given  a 
very  willing  assent,  and  then  I  asked  a  little  anxiously 
about  Sydney  and  Thurston ;  but  mother  had  already 
thought  of  that.  "  I  can  give  Mrs.  Bevan  a  hint,"  she 
returned.  "  She  will  only  be  too  glad  to  have  Sydney, 
and  I  am  quite  sure  she  will  invite  Thurston  for  Sunday. 
I  think  we  could  spend  a  very  happy  week  at  dear  little 
Prior's  Cot,  eh,  Githa  ?  "  and  mother  looked  at  me  wist- 
fully, but  my  answer  seemed  to  content  her. 

I  dismissed  Mrs.  Brabazon's  absurd  speech,  and  after 
a  time  began  to  feast  my  mind  on  this  delightful  plan  of 
mother's ;  and  then  the  door-bell  rang.  But  it  was  not 
father ;  it  was  far  too  early  for  him.  "  Some  tiresome 
visitor,"  I  said  to  myself  quite  peevishly,  and  the  next 
moment  Hallett  announced  Mr.  Carlyon. 

I  was  so  startled  that  I  could  not  at  once  collect  my 
thoughts.  I  heard  myself  telling  him  a  little  incoherently 
that  I  was  very  glad  not  to  miss  him  this  time,  but  that 
he  would  be  sorry  to  hear  that  mother  and  Sydney  had 
gone  to  Fairlawn ;  but  he  let  this  pass.  I  thought  he 
seemed  very  pleased  to  see  me.  His  manner  gave  me  that 
impression,  for  he  certainly  did  not  say  so  in  words.  But 
it  also  struck  me  that  he  was  a  little  nervous,  though  it 
might  have  been  my  fancy. 

"  I  have  been  to  the  Royal  Academy  this  morning," 
he  said,  a  little  abruptly,  as  he  drew  a  chair  nearer  to 
me.  "  Of  course  I  saw  the  picture."  He  spoke  so  mean- 
ingly that  I  knew  he  was  alluding  to  the  portrait ;  but  I 
did  not  like  to  ask  what  he  thought  of  it.  Pie  smiled 
as  though  he  read  my  face. 

"  It  is  very  lifelike.  I  have  seen  that  expression  more 
403 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

than  once,"  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  is  not  given  to  all  of  us 
to  see  visions,  but  as  I  stood  opposite  that  picture  1 
seemed  to  understand  much  that  would  be  a  mystery  to 
some  people."  How  very  strange  for  Mr.  Carlyon  to 
say  that !  "  For  instance,"  he  went  on,  "  I  heard  some 
one  behind  me  say  that  you  looked  rather  sad,  but  I  cer- 
tainly did  not  share  that  opinion.  I  think,"  rather  slowly 
and  hesitatingly,  "  the  dreamy  look  in  the  eyes  recalled  to 
me  your  father's  name  for  you — do  you  remember — 
Titania  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  so  intently  as  he  said  this  that  I 
could  not  answer.  A  sudden,  overpowering  sense  of  shy- 
ness took  possession  of  me.  I  was  fully  aware  that  he 
had  taken  my  hand,  and  that  he  was  speaking  to  me  in  a 
voice  which  thrilled  me  with  its  gentleness  and  intense 
earnestness.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  every  word, 
but  that  I  could  not  grasp  the  meaning.  I  was  in  a  dream, 
and  it  was  all  so  wonderful  and  beautiful  that  I  could 
not  believe  that  it  was  true.  He  was  telling  me  that  he 
cared  for  me  too  much  for  his  peace  of  mind;  that  from 
the  first  he  had  been  drawn  to  me  in  a  singular  manner, 
as  though  there  were  some  affinity  between  us ;  that  in 
some  indefinable  way  I  had  reminded  him  of  his  lost 
Doreen.  He  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  battled  against 
this  feeling,  believing  himself  too  old  and  too  much 
saddled  with  responsibilities  to  be  a  fit  mate  for  my  youth, 
but  that  the  struggle  had  been  unavailing ;  that  in  spite  of 
his  efiforts  he  had  grown  to  love  me  so  dearly  that  his 
only  chance  of  earthly  happiness  lay  in  winning  my  affec- 
tion ;  and  here  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  I  have  talked  to  your  father,  Githa,"  he  went  on. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  me  by  my  name,  and 
yet  how  naturally  he  said  it.  "  He  has  permitted  me  to 
speak  to  you,  but  I  will  tell  you  later  on  what  he  said. 

404 


MY  WOMAN'S  HERITAGE 

Just  now  I  can  only  think  of  one  thing — my  dear  one, 
have  you  any  hope  for  me?  I  would  not  hurry  you  for 
worlds,  and  if  you  would  like  a  little  time  to  consider 
your  answer  you  shall  have  it,  only  do  not  keep  me  longer 
waiting  than  you  can  help." 

I  found  it  very  difficult  to  speak,  but  his  anxiety  was 
so  evident  that  I  contrived  somehow  to  let  him  know 
that  there  was  no  need  to  wait,  and  that  I  was  ready  with 
my  answer;  and  then  I  broke  down  again.  I  had  not 
thought  that  I  could  have  been  so  shy  with  him.  I  think 
he  saw  how  it  was  with  me. 

"  You  need  not  speak,"  he  said  quietly.  "  If  you  will 
look  at  me,  I  shall  be  able  to  read  your  answer  for 
myself." 

I  did  so ;  our  eyes  met,  and  then  he  kissed  me. 


We  had  a  long,  long  talk  after  that — at  least  Mr, 
Carlyon  talked  and  I  listened.  I  never  knew  that  he 
could  have  said  such  things — and  to  think  that  he  really 
meant  them.  It  made  me  so  proud  and  happy  to  hear 
what  he  thought  of  me,  and  yet  it  humbled  me,  too.  I 
remember  I  told  him  that  he  must  not  think  of  me  too 
highly ;  that  I  was  very  young  and  inexperienced,  and 
made  many  mistakes ;  that  I  feared  when  he  knew  me 
better  that  I  should  often  disappoint  him.  But  he  only 
smiled. 

"  I  think  I  know  you  well  now,"  he  returned  gently ; 
"  and  as  for  mistakes — do  we  not  all  make  them,  daily, 
even  hourly?  My  darling,  you  need  not  try  to  depreciate 
yourself,  for  I  love  you,  faults  and  all ;  but  I  never  loved 
and  reverenced  you  more  than  when  I  saw  you  battling 
so  bravely  with  your  trouble.  Your  unselfishness  and 
filial  devotion  must  have  won  my  heart  then  if  it  had 

40s 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

not  been  yours  already  " ;  and  then  he  went  on  to  tell  me 
of  his  suspense  and  anxiety  during  my  illness. 

"  Grenville  did  not  minimise  the  danger,  dear.  You 
see  he  had  no  idea  how  the  land  lay,  or  he  would  have 
softened  things  a  bit.  His  letters  used  to  make  me  so 
wretched,  Githa.  There  were  days  when  I  was  almost 
beside  myself,  thinking  that  I  should  lose  you,  and  that 
for  a  second  time  my  heart's  desire  would  be  taken  from 
me." 

It  was  after  this  that  I  asked  him  a  little  anxiously 
what  father  had  said.  He  replied  that  he  had  been  very 
kind,  but  had  owned  frankly  that  though  there  was  no 
man  whom  he  more  respected  and  liked,  and  to  whom  he 
could  trust  his  child  with  greater  confidence,  he  thought 
I  was  too  young  to  incur  such  responsibilities. 

"  '  If  Githa  returns  your  affection  and  consents  to 
marry  you,  she  will  be  a  stepmother  before  she  is  out 
of  her  teens.'  You  see  he  did  not  want  you  to  marry  a 
widower,  dearest ;  and  then,  though  I  am  not  really  old — 
only  eight  and  thirty — there  are  twenty  years  between 
us." 

I  saw  Mr.  Carlyon  was  a  little  sensitive  about  his  age 
and  grey  hair  and  the  children ;  I  think  father  had  made 
him  so.  But  I  told  him  that  none  of  these  things  troubled 
me ;  that  I  never  had  thought  him  old,  and  that  I  did  not 
want  him  to  be  a  year  younger ;  and  that  I  loved  the  chil- 
dren so  dearly,  that  I  had  no  fear  of  responsibilities  if 
he  would  only  help  me.  When  I  had  whispered  this,  he 
put  his  hand  on  my  head  and  said  in  an  earnest  voice  that 
it  would  be  one  of  the  chief  objects  of  his  life  to  help  me 
and  make  me  happy.  He  spoke  a  little  of  Lady  Doreen 
after  this.  It  was  I  who  mentioned  her  first.  I  felt  a 
little  more  at  my  ease  with  him,  and  I  wanted  him  to 
know  that  he  need  never  be  afraid  of  talking  about  her  ; 

406 


MY  WOMAN'S  HERITAGE 

that  I  felt  almost  that  she  was  a  dear  friend  whose 
memory  was  sacred  to  me ;  that  I  could  never  hear  too 
much  about  her,  and  that  he  need  not  fear  that  I  should 
ever  have  any  unworthy  and  jealous  feelings. 

He  seemed  very  much  touched  at  this,  and  was  just 
thanking  me  in  such  a  nice  way  when  father  came  into 
the  room.  He  stopped  abruptly  when  he  saw  us,  and 
then  turned  very  pale. 

"  You  have  made  short  work  of  it,  Carlyon,  I  see," 
he  said  in  rather  a  quick,  pained  tone.  "  So  you  have 
stolen  my  Gipsy." 

Then  I  went  up  to  him  and  put  my  arms  round  his 
neck.  "  Father,  you  have  not  really  lost  me,"  I  whis- 
pered. "  Nothing  except  death  could  ever  really  part 
us.  If  you  had  been  alone,  but  now  you  have  mother." 
But  there  were  tears  in  his  dear  eyes,  and  it  did  not 
seem  easy  for  him  to  speak.  He  held  out  his  hand  to 
Mr.  Carlyon,  and  then  he  kissed  me  very  tenderly.  My 
poor,  dear  father,  the  idea  of  losing  his  Gipsy  nearly 
broke  his  heart ! 


407 


XLII 

MENTOR  CLOSES  THE  CHAPTER 


The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 
A  Paradise.    All  familiar  things  he  touched — 
All  common  words  he  spoke — became  to  me 
Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 

Shelley. 

I  SHALL  never  forget  how  dear  and  good  my  mother  was 
to  me  that  evening.  I  think  that,  hke  father,  she  was 
rather  taken  by  surprise  when  she  saw  Mr.  Carlyon ; 
they  had  neither  of  them  expected  him  so  soon.  But  in 
spite  of  her  evident  emotion,  the  look  that  passed  between 
them  told  me  how  absolute  was  her  trust  in  him.  As 
for  Sydney,  she  positively  beamed  with  delight,  though 
she  wisely  reserved  her  ecstasies  until  we  were  alone 
together. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  to  hear  her  say  that  she 
had  for  months  expected  this  to  happen,  though  she  never 
hinted  her  surmise  to  any  one. 

"  I  was  sure  that  he  cared  for  you,"  she  went  on. 
"  I  have  seen  him  look  at  you  in  such  a  grave,  intent 
way,  and  when  you  were  speaking  he  would  listen  as 
though  he  feared  to  lose  a  word.  He  seemed  to  be  utterly 
absorbed  in  you,  but  you  never  noticed.  I  knew  then 
how  it  would  end." 

Mr.  Carlyon  could  not  stay  long  with  us  that  evening, 
but  he  promised  to  come  early  the  next  morning  and 
take  me  out ;  and  he  was  also  to  dine  with  us.  As  soon 
as  we  had  settled  this  he  took  his  leave,  and  I  went  out 

408 


MENTOR  CLOSES  THE  CHAPTER 

on  the  balcony  to  see  the  last  of  him.  I  wanted  to  escape 
to  my  own  room  to  think  over  things ;  but  mother  fol- 
lowed me  upstairs.  "  You  will  let  me  talk  to  you  a  little, 
will  you  not  darling  ?  "  she  said  so  tenderly,  and  she  was 
so  loving  and  gentle.  She  understood  so  thoroughly  all 
I  was  feeling  that  she  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  comfort. 
Father's  depression  had  damped  me  a  little ;  it  seemed 
to  wake  me  from  my  blissful  dream !  Had  I  been  selfish 
in  my  intense  happiness?  Even  at  that  moment  the  con- 
sciousness of  Mr.  Carlyon's  love  was  filling  me  with 
indescribable  pride  and  joy.  That  he  should  think  me 
worthy  of  his  affection ;  that  he  should  choose  me  to 
share  his  life-work,  and  to  comfort  him  for  the  loss  of 
that  sweet  Lady  Doreen !  It  was  this  that  seemed  to  me 
such  a  miracle. 

"  I  know  all  about  it,  Githa,"  observed  mother  softly, 
as  I  hid  my  flushed  face  against  her  shoulder.  "  You 
cannot  realise  your  happiness — everything  is  new  and 
strange ;  it  is  as  though  you  were  re-born  into  a  new 
world."     Dear  mother!  had  she  felt  that  too? 

"  If  only  father  would  not  be  unhappy,"  I  whispered. 

"  He  will  not  be  long  sad,"  she  returned  in  such  a 
comforting  way.  "  You  must  give  him  time,  darling, 
to  get  used  to  the  idea  of  losing  you.  He  was  troubled 
at  first  when  Mr.  Carlyon  spoke  to  him ;  he  thought  you 
too  young  to  marry.  I  had  to  remind  him,  Githa,  that 
I  was  your  age — indeed  a  month  or  two  younger — when 
I  became  his  wife.  I  was  a  mother  before  I  was  nineteen ; 
but  he  had  not  remembered  that.  I  think  he  hoped  to 
have  kept  you  for  some  years  longer,"  she  went  on ; 
"  indeed  he  said  as  much  to  me.  You  have  been  so  much 
to  him,  Githa ;  but  I  know  him  well  enough  to  hope  that 
when  he  sees  your  happiness  his  kind  heart  will  be  com- 
forted.    Now  you  must  dry  your  eyes,  my  darling,  for 

409 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

we  must  all  be  very  happy  to-night."  Dear,  sweet  mother, 
how  unselfish  she  was !  Not  one  word  had  she  said  of 
her  own  loss. 

I  found  it  impossible  to  talk  much  that  evening,  so 
mother  asked  Sydney  to  play  to  us,  and  I  sat  down  on 
the  couch  by  father.  Mother  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  we  were  virtually  alone,  and  this  gave  me 
courage  to  ask  him  a  question — did  he  think  me  unkind 
ever  to  wish  to  leave  him?  He  moved  quickly  when  I 
said  this,  and  drew  me  closer  to  him. 

"  Unkind,  Gip !  why,  of  course  not.  I  am  only  a 
selfish  old  fellow,  who  wants  to  keep  his  treasure  to 
himself ;  but  I  was  a  fool  to  imagine  that  I  should  be  able 
to  have  you  safe  for  some  years  yet.  I  might  have  known 
that  your  mother's  daughter  would  turn  out  a  beauty, 
and  that  I  was  not  likely  to  have  much  peace." 

"  Dear  father,  what  nonsense !  but,"  nestling  closer 
to  him,  "you  do  really  like  Mr.  Carlyon?"  I  whispered 
the  name.' 

"  Yes,  I  like  him  tremendously,  Gipsy ;  but,  somehow, 
I  never  thought  that  my  little  girl  would  marry  a  grey- 
haired  widower.  Not  that  Carlyon  is  old — and  he  is  a 
fine-looking  fellow,  too — but,  hang  it  all,  Gip,  there  are 
the  twins !  "  And  father's  tone  was  so  comical  that  I 
could  not  help  laughing.  Sydney  was  playing  rather 
loudly,  and  no  one  heard  me.  But  by  and  by  I  tried  to 
make  father  understand  that  the  thought  of  the  children 
only  added  to  my  happiness — "  I  do  love  them  so."  And 
after  this  father  said  some  very  nice  things  about  Mr. 
Carlyon. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Gip,"  he  finished,  "  I  expect  your 
mother  spoke  the  truth  when  she  said  we  should  probably 
spend  half  our  time  at  Prior's  Cot  when  you  are  at  the 
Vicarage."    But  I  would  not  let  him  enter  on  that;  the 

410 


MENTOR  CLOSES  THE  CHAPTER 

very  idea  of  the  Vicarage  being  my  home  made  me  dizzy. 

I  was  obliged  to  tell  Mardie  the  news  that  night, 
though  I  was  almost  too  tired  to  do  so.  The  dear  old 
thing  was  so  pleased  and  proud  that  she  could  not  help 
crying. 

"  But  it  is  only  with  joy,  Githa,"  she  explained,  "  to 
think  that  my  dear  young  lady  is  to  be  married  and  to 
have  a  home  of  her  own  " ;  and  then  she  cried  again  at 
the  thought  of  how  she  would  miss  me.  But  I  told  her 
quite  seriously  that  if  I  went  to  the  Vicarage  she  must 
come  too ;  and  when  she  saw  I  really  meant  it,  she  said 
that  she  was  as  happy  as  a  queen. 

I  did  not  sleep  very  well  that  night ;  I  was  overexcited 
and  weary  with  happiness  ;  but  it  was  pleasant  to  lie  awake 
in  the  quiet,  restful  darkness,  and  to  whisper  my  thanks- 
giving for  the  great  and  priceless  gift  of  a  good  man's 
love.  I  hardly  dared  to  acknowledge  to  myself  how  I 
loved  him.  I  had  been  so  shy  with  him  that  day — so 
stupidly  tongue-tied  and  embarrassed — but  I  knew  he  had 
understood ;  and  how  patient,  how  very  patient,  he  had 
been  with  my  childishness. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  more  like  my  old  self  when  I  see 
him  again,"  was  my  last  waking  thought  when  the  grey 
light  heralded  the  dawn  of  a  new  day.  Mr.  Carlyon  came 
quite  early ;  he  seemed  glad  to  find  me  alone.  He  asked 
me  at  once  if  I  had  slept  well,  and  shook  his  head  rather 
gravely  when  I  evaded  the  question.  "  Those  pale  cheeks 
are  sufficient  answer,"  he  remarked ;  but  they  were  not 
pale  after  that.  He  asked  me  if  I  should  like  to  go  out 
with  him,  and  I  said  Yes,  and  we  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  morning  in  Battersea  Park.  It  was  very  quiet 
there  and  we  found  a  retired  nook,  and  then  we  had  the 
loveliest  talk,  and  I  soon  forgot  my  shyness,  and  we  were 
very,  very  happy  together. 

411 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

That  evening  Aunt  Cosie  and  Thurston  dined  with 
us,  and  I  wore  my  white  chiffon  dress.  I  saw  a  quick 
flash  in  Mr.  Carlyon's  eyes  as  I  approached  him.  He  had 
brought  me  some  flowers,  and  as  he  put  them  in  my 
hand  he  whispered  "  Titania,"  and  then  added  under  his 
breath,  "  Have  you  put  on  that  dress  for  me,  darhng?  " 
But  he  knew  I  had. 

It  was  after  this,  as  we  stood  together  on  the  balcony 
to  admire  the  moonHght  on  the  water,  that  he  told  me 
that  I  must  call  him  Paul.  He  seemed  pleased  when  I 
confessed  that  it  was  a  favourite  name  with  me,  and  he 
would  not  be  satisfied  until  he  had  heard  it  from  my  lips. 
It  was  a  little  hard  to  say  it  at  first,  but  I  soon  got  more 
used  to  it. 

I  saw  him  daily  after  this ;  he  always  came  and  took 
me  out  somewhere.  We  went  to  the  Royal  Academy 
together,  and  to  Westminster  Abbey  and  other  places, 
and  he  generally  came  in  the  evening.  One  night  mother 
asked  the  Pelhams  to  dinner.  I  had  written  to  Reddy, 
and  she  had  come  to  me  at  once  and  had  brought  me  kind 
messages  from  Helen.  She  seemed  very  much  struck 
with  Paul,  and  told  me  seriously  that  she  considered  me  a 
very  fortunate  girl.  "  He  is  a  head  and  shoulders  taller 
than  other  men,"  she  observed,  and-  of  course  I  knew 
what  she  meant.  It  was  a  very  Claudian  speech,  but  it 
conveyed  a  high  compliment.  Before  Paul  went  back  to 
Bayfield  he  induced  father  to  consent  that  we  should 
be  married  at  the  beginning  of  October.  Father  wanted 
us  to  wait  until  the  spring,  but  Paul  was  a  little  master- 
ful, and  as  he  had  first  won  mother  over  to  his  side  he 
carried  his  point.  I  left  them  to  settle  matters.  Even  in 
those  early  days  his  word  was  a  law  to  me,  and  he  was 
so  reasonable  and  unselfish  that  I  knew  I  could  rely 
implicitly  on  his  judgment.    Oh,  how  I  grew  to  love  him, 

412 


MENTOR  CLOSES  THE  CHAPTER 

my  noble  Paul !  But  I  will  not  speak  of  that.  After  all, 
mother  carried  out  her  plan ;  but  instead  of  a  fortnight 
we  spent  a  whole  month  at  Prior's  Cot,  and  father  came 
down  for  the  week  end,  from  Friday  until  Monday. 
Sydney  kept  him  company  at  St.  Olave's,  and  she  and 
Thurston  spent  their  Sundays  with  Aunt  Cosie. 

We  had  a  lovely  time,  mother  and  I,  and  every  hour 
that  Paul  could  snatch  from  his  parish  work  was  spent 
with  us.  As  for  the  children,  they  ran  in  and  out  at  all 
hours.  They  grew  very  much  attached  to  mother,  and 
always  called  her  the  Lady — a  name  that  greatly  amused 
us. 

Paul  was  exceedingly  busy ;  he  was  planning  all  sorts 
of  changes  at  the  Vicarage.  One  or  two  of  the  rooms 
were  to  be  refurnished,  and  he  was  very  anxious  for 
mother's  opinion.  He  would  have  liked  if  possible  to 
have  built  a  new  wing,  but  mother  dissuaded  him  from 
this  idea.  "  It  can  always  be  done  later,"  she  said  very 
wisely ;  "  and  you  can  stay  at  Prior's  Cot  while  the  altera- 
tions are  going  on."    And  Paul  acted  on  this  advice. 

The  stables  had  to  be  enlarged,  and  horse-boxes  pre- 
pared for  my  dear  Bab,  and  the  new  horses  which  were 
to  be  father's  wedding  present  to  Paul. 

Paul  was  a  richer  man  than  I  knew.  He  had  a  good 
private  income,  but  since  Lady  Doreen's  death  he  had 
lived  very  quietly.  The  money  that  father  would  give 
me  was,  as  Paul  insisted,  to  be  entirely  for  my  use.  I 
am  afraid  I  took  very  slight  interest  in  these  matters ; 
even  my  trousseau  would  have  been  of  little  importance 
if  I  had  not  known  that  Paul  would  take  pleasure  in  all 
my  pretty  things.  Of  course  I  loved  his  presents,  not 
because  they  were  so  costly  and  beautiful,  but  because 
they  were  the  tokens  of  his  love. 

Tt  was  while  we  were  at  Bayfield  that  we  heard  a 
very  sad  piece  of  news  which  shocked  us  greatly. 

413 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

When  Paul  came  over  to  the  cottage  one  morning 
I  thought  he  looked  unusually  grave.  Mother  v^^as  in  the 
room,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  greeted  us,  he  said  that  he 
had  something  very  sad  to  tell  us,  and  that  he  knew 
how  grieved  Sydney  and  I  would  be ;  and  then  he  told  us 
that  poor,  dear  Rhona  was  dead. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  shocked  we  were.  Lady 
Wilde  had  only  heard  from  her  a  few  days  previously. 
She  had  written  quite  cheerfully.  They  were  just  going 
to  stay  with  her  uncle.  Sir  William  Etheridge,  at  Over- 
dean  Grange,  a  beautiful  place  on  the  borders  of  Hamp- 
shire. 

I  knew  how  Rhona  loved  staying  at  the  Grange.  Sir 
William  had  married  twice,  and  there  was  a  young  family 
— girls  and  boys  of  all  ages.  Rhona  had  often  talked  to 
us  about  them ;  and  the  youngest  boy,  Billy,  was  a  special 
favourite  of  hers. 

Paul  had  just  been  to  St.  Helen's  Towers,  and  had 
found  Lady  Wilde  much  upset  by  the  news.  He  gave 
us  full  particulars.  Rhona's  death  was  the  result  of  an 
accident.  There  was  a  piece  of  water  not  far  from  the 
house,  which  was  called  the  lake.  It  was  in  rather  a 
secluded  spot,  and  was  in  reality  a  deep,  large  pond, 
closed  in  rather  prettily  with  a  bosky  thicket.  Billy,  who 
had  a  new  sailing-boat,  had  asked  Rhona  to  accompany 
him  to  the  pond,  as  his  nurse  was  busy,  and  he  was  never 
allowed  to  go  near  the  pond  alone. 

There  was  a  little  bit  of  woodwork  projecting  into 
the  water,  from  which  Billy  always  launched  his  boat. 
No  one  exactly  knew  how  it  happened,  for  Billy's  account 
was  somewhat  vague — "  that  he  felled  in  and  caught  his 
leg  in  the  string,"  was  all  Billy  could  tell  them.  It  could 
only  be  supposed  that  in  her  frantic  efforts  to  catch  hold 
of  the  child,  Rhona  must  have  overbalanced  herself  and 

414 


MENTOR  CLOSES  THE  CHAPTER 

fallen  into  the  water.  The  pond  was  deep  and  her  clothes 
were  heavy.  A  keeper  and  his  dog,  passing  a  few  minutes 
later,  saw  what  he  supposed  to  be  poor  Billy's  corpse 
drifting  towards  the  creek ;  but  happily  the  child  had 
only  lost  consciousness.  Poor  Rhona  was  dead  before 
she  was  brought  out  of  the  water. 

"  I  am  sure  they  must  be  right  in  thinking  that  the 
poor  girl  overbalanced  herself,"  continued  Paul.  "  She 
must  have  known  how  deep  the  water  was  by  the  little 
pier,  and  they  say  she  could  not  swim.  She  would  hardly 
have  been  reckless  enough  to  jump  in  at  the  risk  of  her 
life."    And  mother  endorsed  this  opinion. 

But  I  could  not  be  sure  of  this.  I  knew  that  Rhona 
was  constitutionally  timid,  that  she  was  hardly  the  sort 
of  person  to  do  a  heroic  action ;  but  at  a  sudden  crisis 
even  timid  natures  can  rise  to  an  emergency.  Rhona 
was  very  fond  of  Billy ;  she  could  hardly  see  the  child 
drowning  before  her  eyes  without  trying  to  save  him.  It 
was  quite  possible  that  she  waded  into  the  water  a  little 
lower  down,  and  then  got  out  of  her  depth,  and  was 
unable  to  save  herself.  Poor,  gentle,  loving  Rhona,  with 
her  colourless  life  and  disappointed  hopes,  how  I  wept 
for  her  that  day !  And  yet  for  her,  was  it  not  as  well 
that  the  fairer  life  had  dawned,  and  that  her  sweet  spirit 
was  at  rest? 

"  This  will  make  a  great  difference  to  Thurston," 
mother  said  to  me  later  in  the  day.  "  Now  that  poor 
child  is  no  longer  the  bone  of  contention,  there  may  be 
some  hope  of  reconciliation  between  him  and  his  grand- 
mother."   And,  as  usual,  mother  was  right. 

On  our  return  from  Bayfield,  Thurston  and  Sydney 
were  definitely  engaged ;  but  it  was  not  until  after  our 
marriage  that  Lady  Wilde  could  be  induced  to  forgive 
her  grandson.     But  she  was  old  and  broken,  and  Paul 

415 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

was  very  eloquent.  By  the  middle  of  November  every^ 
thing  was  settled.  Lady  Wilde  had  promised  to  recognise 
the  engagement,  and  Thurston  had  acceded  to  her  wish 
to  give  up  his  work  at  the  Bank  and  to  go  back  to  St. 
Helen's  Towers.  In  the  late  spring  it  was  to  be  Sydney's 
home,  too.  Lady  Wilde  had  implored  Thurston  not  to 
leave  her  again. 

"  You  shall  have  your  own  apartments,  and  I  will  be 
good  to  your  wife,"  she  said  to  him ;  "  and  after  my  death 
it  will  all  be  yours."  And  Thurston  had  reluctantly  con- 
sented to  this ;  there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do,  as 
he  observed  to  us  rather  ruefully. 

After  all,  things  turned  out  much  better  than  we  had 
dared  to  expect.  Lady  Wilde  grew  very  fond  of  Sydney ; 
as  time  went  on  she  became  more  and  more  of  an  invalid, 
and  they  rarely  saw  her  except  in  the  evening.  Sydney 
was  the  ruling  mistress,  and  she  and  Thurston  were 
together  the  livelong  day.  "  They  are  the  happiest 
couple  in  the  world,"  Paul  would  say  to  me  sometimes, 
as  we  walked  home  from  St.  Helen's  Towers.  But  he 
only  said  it  that  I  might  contradict. 

"  Not  the  happiest,  Paul !  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
not  the  happiest  as  long  as  you  and  I  are  together !  " 

We  have  been  together,  Paul  and  I,  seven  happy  years, 
and  during  that  time  there  have  been  wonderful  changes 
in  the  old  Vicarage.  The  new  wing  has  been  added ;  for 
there  are  three  little  ones  in  the  nursery,  over  which 
Peace  still  presides. 

Alas !  the  twins  have  been  parted ;  for  Cyril  is  now 
at  Winchester,  where  his  dear  father  had  been  educated ; 
and  though  Stella  was  at  first  inconsolable,  she  soon 
found  consolation  in  the  society  of  her  small  brother  and 
sister.     Stella  is  my  right  hand;  my  dear,  bright-faced, 

416 


MENTOR  CLOSES  THE  CHAPTER 

winsome  little  companion — "  Mother  Girlie  "  as  she  still 
calls  me.  She  is  perfectly  devoted  to  my  Philip,  who  is 
his  father's  image;  but  she  fairly  idolises  our  sweet 
Yvonne.  The  child  can  do  no  wrong  in  her  eyes ;  but, 
indeed,  she  has  the  loveliest  nature,  and  I  am  afraid  we 
all  spoil  her  dreadfully. 

And  then  there  is  my  baby,  my  bonnie  Maurice — a 
splendid  fellow,  who  nearly  cost  his  mother  her  life.  But 
neither  Paul  nor  I  ever  care  to  dwell  on  that  painful 
occurrence. 

There  was  an  accident.  One  of  our  horses  was 
restive,  and  our  coachman  had  lost  control ;  a  motor  was 
passing.  I  do  not  know  what  happened.  I  believe  I 
was  thrown  out,  and  that  but  for  Paul's  presence  of  mind 
I  must  have  been  killed ;  for  the  rear  horse  nearly  kicked 
me — only  Paul  caught  the  bridle. 

I  was  very  ill  after  that,  and  at  one  time  they  despaired 
of  my  life;  but  God  was  good  to  us,  and  I  was  given 
back  to  them.  What  Paul  must  have  suffered !  But  he 
never  even  spoke  to  me  of  those  days ;  I  think  he  could 
not. 

All  those  months  father  and  mother  never  left  Bay- 
field. Mother  almost  lived  at  the  Vicarage.  For  some 
weeks  I  was  not  allowed  to  see  my  baby,  and  when  at 
last  the  doctor  gave  permission,  it  was  mother  who  laid 
him  beside  me.  My  Maurice  !  my  precious  boy !  the  tears 
that  I  shed  on  your  innocent  face  that  day  were  all  from 
pure  joy. 


But  here  comes  Mentor  with  his  usual  question: 
"  What !  writing  still,  Githa  ?  I  thought  the  autobio- 
graphy of  your  girlhood  was  to  be  finished  to-day." 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  only  to  add  the  closing  words,  Paul. 
27  417 


THE  ANGEL  OF  FORGIVENESS 

Do  you  remember  that  to-morrow  will  be  our  wedding- 
day,  and  that  dear  father  and  mother  are  to  dine  with 
us?" 

"Do  I  ever  forget  it,  love?"  stroking  my  head. 
"  Little  wife,  I  have  some  good  news  for  you  to-night. 
Dr.  Neale  tells  me  that  you  have  made  such  progress 
during  the  last  fortnight  that  he  quite  hopes  that  in  a 
few  weeks  you  will  be  as  well  as  ever." 

"  Oh,  Paul,  it  is  really  true?  and  I  was  afraid  I  might 
be  an  invalid  for  years." 

"  I  think  we  all  feared  that,  dearest,  but  our  merciful 
Father  has  decreed  otherwise.  Now  Stella  wants  to 
know  if  the  children  are  to  come  down  as  usual." 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  but  wait  one  moment.  Have  I  been 
very  impatient,  Paul  ?  " 

"  Impatient,  darling?  "  He  was  very  close  to  me  now, 
and  I  had  my  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  I  tried  not  to  be ;  but  there  were  times  when  it  was 
very  hard,  and  I  could  not  face  the  music.  I  did  not  want 
you  to  have  an  invalid  wife,  dear." 

"  Neither  did  I ;  but  I  should  have  loved  her  all  the 
same.  You  would  have  been  a  spoiled  woman,  Githa, 
with  all  these  hands  and  feet  to  wait  on  you." 

The  happy  tears  dimmed  my  eyes.  I  had  been  afraid, 
and  there  was  no  cause  for  fear.  I  had  been  nerving 
myself  to  carry  a  cross  which  had  not  been  laid  upon  me. 

"  Will  you  take  me  into  the  church  to-morrow,  Paul  ?  " 
And  then  as  our  eyes  met  he  understood.  "  Hark !  I  hear 
the  little  feet  on  the  stairs ;  after  all  they  have  not  waited 
to  be  summoned." 

"  You  had  better  write  Finis,  soon,"  he  said,  smiling 
at  me. 

"  There — I  have  written  it !  Now,  children  "  \  ^nd 
then  they  all  trooped  into  the  room. 

THE    END 


WHOLESOME   BOOKS 
FOR   GIRLS 

By  ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

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NO  FRIEND  LIKE  A  SISTER 

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J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  PHILADELPHIA 


BOOKS     FOR    GIRLS. 


My  Lady  Frivol 

By  Rosa  N.  Carey.     A  book  for  girls. 

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children,  for  there  are  many  charming  tales  for  the  little 
ones,  but  for  girls  who  are  standing  '  where  the  brook  and 
river  meet,'  and  this  is  perhaps  a  more  difficult  task." 

Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


Miss  Vanity 


By  Amy  E.  Blanch aru.     Uniform  with  "An  Independent 

Daughter. ' ' 
Illustrated  by  Bess  Goe.     l2mo.     Cloth,  ^^1.25. 

Amy  E.  Blanchard,  the  author  of  "Two  Girls"  and 
"Girls  Together,"  has  evidently  known  and  deeply  studied 
the  manners  of  young  people  in  their  teens.  She  enters 
with  a  peculiar  zest  into  the  spirit  of  girlhood,  and  purity 
of  tone  and  reality  of  impression  are  the  leading  traits  of 
her  books  for  girls. 

"No  one,  in  my  estimation,  could  quite  take  the  place 
of  dear  Louisa  Alcott  as  a  writer  of  realistic  books  of  young 
lives,  but  Miss  Blanchard  holds  a  place  in  the  hearts  of 
her  readers  that  is  a  close  second.  Her  books  are  healthily 
stimulating,  vivaciously  written,  and  have  the  air  of  being 
genuine  bits  of  life  that  the  author  has  had  near  her  and 
studied  carefully  and  keenly." 

Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS,  PHILADELPHIA. 


Popular  Library  for  Girls. 

In  handsomely  bound  8vo  volumes.     Illustrated. 
Per  volume,  $i.oo. 

By  AMY   E.   BLANCHARD. 

rWO  GIRLS.    GIRLS  TOGETHER.    BETTY  OF  WYE. 

By  GEORGE  MACDONALD. 

PRINCESS  AND  GOBLIN.    PRINCESS  AND  CURDIE. 

By  LAURA   F.  MEAD. 

CATALINA. 

By  MRS.  MOLESWORTH. 

OLIVIA.  PHILIPPA.  MEG   LANGHOLME. 

By  J.  E.  MUDDOCK. 

MAID   MARION   AND   ROBIN   HOOD. 

By  A.  M.  RICHARDS. 

NEW   ALICE   IN  OLD  WONDERLAND. 

By  "THE   DUCHESS." 

THE  THREE  GRACES.' 


J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY,    PHILADELPHIA 


LIST  OF  POPULAR  NOVELS. 


By  Rosa  N.   Carey. 
Mollie's  Prince. 

l2mo.      Cloth,  ^i.oo;  paper,  50  cents. 

Miss  Carey  has  a  well-merited  reputation  as  a  writer  of  light, 
pleasant,  wholesome  romance — of  a  kind  to  place  safely  in  the  hands 
of  young  girls.  Her  books  are  distinguished  by  high  tone,  clear  char- 
acterization, and  bright  humor,  with  never  a  dull  page  from  beginning 
to  end. 

By  Joseph  Hatton. 
When  Rogues  Fall  Out. 

A  Romance  of  Old  London.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00  ;  paper,  50  cents. 

Mr.  Hatton,  so  well  and  favorably  known  to  appreciative  readers 
of  good  fiction,  gives  in  this,  his  latest  work,  what  he  considers  to  be 
the  truth  concerning  Jack  Sheppard  and  his  associates  ;  and  there  is 
enough  of  romance  in  the  true  story  to  obviate  the  necessity  for  any 
violence  to  historic  facts. 

By  Mrs.  Alexander. 
The  Step-Mother. 

l2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oo;  paper,  50  cents. 

"  Mrs.  Alexander  knows  perfectly  how  to  write  these  emotional 
romances,  and  she  always  creates  interest,  and  sustains  it  with  pleasant 
devices  of  plot  and  manner  which  commend  her  books  to  readers  of 
good  books." — Washington  Times. 


J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA. 


By  ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 

Author  of ' '  The  Highway  of  Fate. ' ' 

A    PASSAGE    PERILOUS. 

i2mo.     Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

"Miss  Carey  always  writes  a  wholesome  and  interesting  story."  — 
Chicago  Post. 

"A  love  story,  naturally,  but  one  dealing  with  people  one  would 
like  to  know,  and  of  the  sort  that  well-bred  people  do  know.  There 
is  a  young  woman  who  falls  in  love  after  she  is  married — but  with  her 
husband.  She  does  not  feel  sure  of  the  state  of  her  feelings  for  a 
time,  and  there  are  some  interesting  episodes  to  encounter  before  the 
happy  termination  is  reached." — St.  Louis  Glebe- Democrat. 

By  B.  M.  CROKER 

Author  of  ^^  The  Caf  s  Paw." 

JOHANNA. 

lamo.     Paper,  50  cents;  decorated  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  story  of  Irish  life,  and  the  heroine  is  a  poor  peasant  girl.  We 
follow  the  fortunes  of  Johanna  with  breathless  interest  and  are  glad 
when  happiness  comes  to  her  at  last." — Providence  Journal. 

"The  story  of  'Johanna'  is  worth  telling,  and  is  told  naturally, 
briefly,  and  effectively." — St.  Louis  Republic. 

By  JOHN   STRANGE  WINTER 

Author  of ' '  Marty. ' ' 

LITTLE   JOAN. 

izmo.     Decorated  cloth,  $1.25. 

"  From  the  very  beginning  one  loves  dear  little  Joan  and  is  inter- 
ested in  the  sweet  story  of  her  love  affairs.  The  book  gives  a  charming 
picture  of  a  real  English  home.  It  is  all  wholesome  and  real."  — 
Louisville  Courier-Joiirnal. 


J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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